Beyond the Pale
by Jon Sorensen
Summary: Skyrim may or may not be headed towards a civil war, but for Janus Castorius, it only matters whether he can satisfy his own desires. That is until his gets pulled into the midst of polical games, and on top of that, into dealings with sinister cut-throats. Between a warm bed and cold steel, the choice should be an easy one...
1. Chapter 1: The Man of Two Masters

**Chapter 1: The Man of Two Masters**

It was just going to be one of those days.

It took some considerable effort to stifle a yawn, but Janus Castorius' conditioning stopped him from giving in to the temptation to just let it come—not when he was standing at attention. His eye caught a young, pretty girl with thick chestnut hair standing among the gathering crowd, and he found himself inadvertently smiling at her. The girl met his gaze but quickly looked away, doubtless afraid to let her eyes linger on a man of his position.

Castorius sighed quietly. He was not used to being regarded in that fashion.

The morning had broken sunny and clear, and looked to turn out precisely how he generally liked them. A clear sky loomed above, and the balmy summer breeze gently tousled his curly flaxen hair. Had he been free to pick his present conditions, he would have doubtless chosen to start the day slow, waking early yet lingering in bed for a good long while. Perhaps, if he'd had company, he would've gone for a little tussle, or, if he were by himself, enjoyed the simple pleasure of stretching his long limbs on the comfy bed, letting the sleep of the night slowly ebb away until finally rising to do some exercises.

Then he would saunter off to the kitchen and break his fast with perhaps some fresh bacon—fried crispy—accompanied by a couple of fried eggs—sunny side up or perhaps just over easy—before he would embark outdoors on a leisurely walk in the fresh mountain air.

By no means were those typical conditions for a man of his profession, but Castorius had learned long ago that a man's own will and determination to forward his own position made all the difference in the world as to where in it, and in what sort of position, he'd find himself. A man simply had to take what he rightfully knew belonged to him, and take whatever risk needed to accomplish that—an attitude which, Castorius could testify, demanded the sufficient strength of nature to accept the possibility of coming up with zero in the aftermath.

And yet he had never considered himself a gambling man.

All the same, as it was, he'd not had those kinds of luxuries today, but had instead been torn up from his hard bed all too early in the cold, artless confines of The Castle Dour—an apt name if there ever was one—and for his breakfast had had to settle for some gray slop of a porridge, more water than it was grain, and a measly piece of stale bread—the kind of feed all too familiar to anyone like himself, serving in the Imperial armed forces.

The morning's program wasn't particularly to his liking, either. He found these barbaric assemblages distasteful—to put the matter diplomatically—and though they aroused his earnest disdain at the best of times, it was today's proceedings in particular that really threatened to cramp his style.

Castorius sighed, more loudly this time. He stood in a stern pose, hands behind his back, and surveyed the plebs slowly gathering in the plaza. All of them eager for a reminder of their own mortality, no doubt, while at the same time reveling in the sweet comfort of the fact that today was not their turn. One needed, Castorius supposed, the occasional evidence of the misery of others as reminder of one's own fortune.

Such as it was.

The expression he wore conformed to the last detail to the polished professional countenance of soldierly wariness, but in his case it contained a fair sprinkle of genuine misgiving as well. He switched his attention from the loathsome throng to the comrades in arms standing around him, hands similarly tugged behind them and, like him, their faces seasoned with grim. He caught the eye of Roggvir, perhaps his best friend in Solitude, who quickly averted his gaze. This was no moment for a show of camaraderie, it seemed.

Soon the audience was looking like a full assembly; faces at once curious, eager, and somewhat fearful all around. Armed imperial soldiers stood around at the sidelines, keeping order, eyeing the crowd with assertive suspicion. The steel shield of one them caught the light of the morning sun crept up low in the eastern sky, and reflected it straight into Castorius' eyes, forcing him to squint. He wished he could have just freed his hand to block the nuisance, but kept his pose as rigid as ever. In this he was well practiced.

Captain Aldis, the Guard Captain of the city guard, stood to his left, his cheek muscles clenched underneath the thick, dark beard. Now there was a man Castorius both admired and hated. Admired him for his firm resolution, the tendency and ability to do what he thought right, to choose his path and follow it until the end, never backing down or flinching. As it happened, those were exactly the same qualities Castorius could not stand about the man. Talk about pig-headed stubbornness, complete inability to judge each situation by its own measure, and change approaches accordingly. For Castorius himself, were it not for his uncanny ability to pick a course according to need and to assume a different approach each time the rules of the game changed, he would have never achieved the things that he had.

For better or for worse.

It did not help that Aldis was quite easy on the eye, what with his ruggedly even features, strong jaw, and eyes of firm determination spiced with a sort of sensitive intelligence; and though his own appearance was not exactly prone to scare away small children either, Castorius nonetheless found himself envying the man's good looks.

By contrast, the man standing next to Aldis might have descended headlong all the way from the top of The Throat of the World, the tallest mountain in all of Tamriel, taking each bump and bounce with his face. Ahtar, the headsman of Solitude, was a man every bit the picture of his trade. The Redguard's dark face was crisscrossed by stripes of lighter pigmentation, and his nose did not only appear to have been broken, but positively bashed in several times over. And, had Castorius not known better, he might have thought those hard black eyes knew nothing but hard justice.

He was under no confusion, though, about the man simply playing his role. Many a time you saw the town executioner cowering behind a cowl, but Ahtar had a way of turning his face itself into a mask, one which betrayed nothing of the big man's true character. The normally soft-spoken man became a hunk of stone, whose professed silence was itself near deafening.

In front of Ahtar, the execution block eagerly awaited fresh blood. The heavy slab of wood was wrought with dents and welts from previous guests, whose gore had been permanently absorbed into its fiber. Castorius thought the thing might have stood in that place from the very conception of Solitude, and since then Skyrim had known a tumultuous past of unrest and warfare.

Now that the audience was more or less fully assembled, an anticipatory silence descended upon it. It turned out to be a popular event, at least a couple dozen attendants; the word of the morning's entertainment must have gotten out to the close-by towns as well. People of shorter stature at the back had to crane their necks for a full view, and Castorius sneered at the bloodthirstiness of the mob. He sought out the fair-skinned girl he'd seen earlier, and was damned if there wasn't a glimmer of anticipation in those otherwise unassuming pale eyes.

Despite himself, he aired out another vexed exhale. Nothing like these macabre chop-off parties to further fracture his already brittle sense of trust in the loftier qualities of his fellow man. Not that he'd ever been much of a philanthropist to start with. But this was one too many times he'd have to attend this sort of sinister revelry, and having served in the city guard for some time, he'd attended them plenty.

Of course, it was no coincidence today's proceedings boasted a particular popularity. This wasn't to be your usual execution, but owed its special nature to at least two reasons. For instance, it was the first time a beheading would stem from solely political reasons, unlike usually when this sort of punishment befell the usual sort of cases: murderers, rapists, even, in some cases, common thieves. But the display today was to be a "swift and harsh punishment" on account of a proclaimed "outrageous and callous act of treason".

The plebs, of course, had been spared from any particulars on what it was exactly that comprised such a despicable act, but Castorius suspected that even if they had been let in on the details, they would have paid little attention anyway. Simple law, simple justice, simple punishments: that was the only language the masses understood.

The fellows-at-arms around Castorius prepared for something to change. As one, they switched the position of their hands from behind their backs to their sides. Castorius did not follow suit. He could not, for a thick rope kept his wrists together about the small of his back.

For the other way in which today's execution stood out from any previous ones he'd witnessed was that today it was to be his head on that chopping block.

That thought in mind, he gazed anew upon the less-than-inviting podium of honor. He'd rested his head on more becoming pillows. A flash of an image of a well-proportioned feminine bosom sprung to mind. He felt his head already sitting loose on his shoulders as he let his eyes rest on the blade of the executioner's axe by Ahtar's hip—so sharp it felt as if you could nick your eye by the sheer act of looking at it.

Everybody's attention was taken by Captain Aldis, who now stepped up and cleared his throat. He unfolded a piece of paper, but when he spoke, he never once looked at it. "Citizens of Solitude, and of Skyrim; and all those visiting," he started. His voice was level and clear, but not very loud. Castorius could see people cocking their heads to hear better. Perhaps it was his thick Nord accent. "We are about to execute a traitor to the Empire," he continued, "the first time ever we've had to resort to such extreme measures. Let this be a lesson to those others possibly harboring rebellious sentiments!" His matter-of-fact tone did little to visibly intimidate anyone, though his words certainly resonated within Castorius.

Aldis turned around, and afforded him a level look. The man's eyes were hard and unfeeling, no clue of their past camaraderie could be read therein—his ever the way of a determinate professional. He addressed Castorius then; gave him a brief but detailed account of his crimes.

Lies, every single line of it.

Castorius grit his teeth, and let the accusation flow over him. He did not need to hear it; it hadn't slipped his mind. He'd read the confession, written supposedly by his own hand. The only part of it originating from him, however, was his name, signed underneath the supposedly accurate recounting. He'd given it on the spot.

And now, coming to the part where Aldis asked him if he in any way contradicted the claims made, he simply shook his head, drawing a rowdy reaction from the crowd.

"Traitor!" somebody yelled.

Yeah, sure. Why not.

"Stormcloak!" yelled another: a short, barren-featured man, who, judging by the look of him, doubtless busted his back in the fields every day of his life for a meager and largely joyless living, just to be able to satisfy the rapacious hunger of his beloved Empire. His face contorted with anger as he yelled out his accusation, dealt out like a dearly-treasured babe finally sent out into the world, as if the taunt itself were the most heinous insult he could possibly have dreamed up.

Well, perhaps a Stormcloak wouldn't have been quite the _most_ heinous thing out there a man could be. Castorius could easily think of one or two worse, and he'd known those types of people. In fact, he might have _been_ one of those types. Perhaps he still was.

Maybe he deserved this, after all.

But this self-deluding pleb moron and his ilk, with their righteous anger and lithe political sensibilities, and their petty slogans and slights, couldn't have been more wrong. The man they now so eagerly crucified with their loathing looks, had never, _ever_, had any political affiliations. None whatsoever.

No, Janus Castorius had only ever served two masters. The first and foremost of them was his stomach. And his stomach, as it turned out, demanded a due filling on regular bases, otherwise proving to be a quarrelsome master indeed. Sure, soldiers got fed regularly, but the unfortunate fact was, Castorius' stomach had developed far too refined a taste for any military gruel to satisfy. In this, it had a staunch follower and a fiercely loyal right-hand man named Palate, whose critical discernment was always to ensure no inferior denizens populated the realm on a more than strictly necessary basis.

For though obvious it was that every man had to eat, for Castorius, a man's measure lay not in the necessities of his existence, but rather in the fashion in which he chose to succumb to them. He may not be able to choose the conditions of his surroundings, or the nature of his needs, but he could damn well decide how he was going to live with them, what quality of satisfactions he was to seek. Would he simply capitulate, and accept the limitations of his externals—settle for what was afforded to him—or would he stand for himself, and make the best of his situation? Would he, in other words, be willing to take what he wanted, even if it meant putting his own safety a risk?

In Castorius' mind, a true man—an authentic man—would without exception always pick the latter option. Such was his unwavering conviction. And this is where it had landed him.

No regrets.

As if to offer its own account, his stomach growled. Castorius ignored it, instead reflexively tracking down the young girl in the crowd. He saw her looking straight at him now with quite unbashful forwardness. She gave him a shy but knowing smile, verging on the sort of soft cruelty only accessible to those innocent.

Yes, regrets . . .

Deep sigh—once more.

For it was Castorius' second lord and master, holding his court just a few inches below the first, who did—and brothers did he ever _ever_—make the former look like a beggar monk in comparison. Castorius, in other words, loved—had always loved—the ladies. Though, to be perfectly honest, he could not readily say if it was he himself who loved them, or was it _him_, this second master of his.

Well, nevertheless. It was a tough contest which one of the two masters was more prone to get Castorius in trouble, but the bottom line nonetheless stood: both had found out long ago that the absolutely best way to keep in whatever it was they desired the most was gold. Status came right in its wake. And the more of either two, the better.

The problem was, however, that the pay of the run-of-the-mill soldier was not much to pen home about. Sure, it was possible even for a non-ranking soldier to occasionally get to enjoy more savory dishes than the usual diet of porridge, cabbages, and, on good days, salted meat. It also had to be admitted that the uniform itself was certainly an incentive to many women, especially when it was carried by a tall, fairly comely man such as Castorius. The fact that being from Cyrodiil made him exotic and exciting in Skyrim also helped. Not that he'd experienced too much difficulty back home, either.

The fact remained, however, that the joys thus acquired were either sporadic in nature, or simply subject to waning due to the obvious fact that time waited for no man. Castorius was going to get older, and if he could not find a way to rise in his social and economic stature, he would not be able to satisfy all of his needs indefinitely. So that had been his foremost objective for the past year. It scarcely needed to be pointed out that it had proved to be less than perfect a success. Not only had he not managed to make any headway, he would soon have no head to make any way with_._

But he was no traitor. After all, how could one be a traitor when one had no loyalties? His own cause he certainly had not betrayed. If there was a call for any proof of that, his current situation should well suffice. Clearly he was a man willing to perish for his beliefs. Or lack thereof.

Yet, he still could not really lend any credibility to any of what was happening. That was part of the reason why he'd never denied the accusations made against him—even when they'd made it perfectly clear the punishment for his alleged crimes was to be death. He had not conceded.

_Let them try_, he'd thought.

Even to Castorius himself that had seemed absolutely foolish. Why he'd chosen that approach, he could not say. He did not understand it himself. But it was an unmistakable certainty in his gut that they could not kill him.

Was it not him who was delusional?

Why not.

"Prisoner, step forward!" Captain Aldis commanded. Castorius did as told. He stood next to the block, looked down on the red-stained thing as upon a mere curiosity. All felt as if in a dream.

"Let's see if Ulfric can save you now!" somebody jeered, drawing a halfhearted tide of chuckles.

Ulfric _had_ promised him gold. That was about it. All he'd asked.

"Lay your head down," Aldis said almost gently. Behind Castorius, Ahtar stirred, readying his time-tested killing-axe.

Castorius knelt, laid his neck in the depression in the block, and closed his eyes. At times like these, people tended to pray, he knew. Castorius had no one to pray to, and nothing to say. He thought of Elisif, the young wife of the High King, and felt something akin to an ache. _This is for you_, he thought, surprised himself by the near-genuine sentiment.

"Have you any last words?" asked Aldis. He might have brought that up while Castorius was still upright.

Still, he said nothing, trusting the silence would speak for itself.

"Alright," Aldis finally said. Castorius braced himself. Would it hurt? He'd heard the head was able to see for a few minutes after it had been detached, and as it rolled off the chopping block. He hoped that was not true, as he was prone to motion sickness.

Would there be something on the other side? He wasn't sure if he'd wish for it or not.

For some reason, he thought of a song sung to him as child by his mother, a woman whose face or voice he could not presently bring to mind. Not that he remembered the lyrics of the song either. He though he might have had a specter of a recollection of what the melody might had been.

Strange, the things that went on in a man's head as his imminent death fast approached.

Though it did seem to take forever. What was the holdup?

Castorius then heard Ahtar's deep inhale, and found himself flexing his neck muscles, as if they could somehow stop the blade.

This was it.

"Stormcloaks!" somebody yelled.

_Yes, yes_, Castorius thought impatiently. _We all heard that the first time, and it's not—_

Wait, this time it had been in plural.

The blow did not come, but the crowd started babbling.

When after a few seconds the axe still had not landed and the commotion in its stead kept picking up, Castorius dared to open his eyes. He turned his neck around on the block to get a look at Ahtar, who stood hanging the axe loose in his hand, his eyes directed towards the crowd. Castorius followed his gaze.

A minor commotion had transpired at the gate where some guards huddled together, parleying with evident agitation. The plebs moved about nervously, babbling among themselves, "attack" being the only word Castorius could clearly discern. Then, a flustered-looking imperial soldier burst through the gate. He stared open-mouthed at the guards for a few seconds, drained of all color. "Stormcloaks," he said then, and all around both guards and soldiers automatically drew swords.

A near panic broke loose among the crowd, everybody tying to out-cry each other. "Ulfric has declared war!" somebody yelled.

"They've come to set their comrade free!" said another.

Yes, surely.

Castorius wasn't sure what to expect next. Would he still be executed? Or would he be expected to take up arms? He might be able to flee with all the commotion . . .

But a strong hand tore him to his feet. Captain Aldis. He held firmly onto Castorius' arm, and motioned for Roggvir to join him. Roggie, as Castorius called him, took the other arm. "Let's get him out of here," Aldis said. He addressed Castorius. "You've lucked out," he said, with no evident emotion. "For now."

And—without giving him further explanations, or responding to any of his queries—his two former friends wordlessly hauled Castorius through the disoriented multitudes and back into his cell.

He couldn't say he'd missed it, but was glad to be going back.


	2. Chapter 2: Back Behind Bars

**Chapter 2: Back Behind Bars**

A rat would have rejected these conditions, Castorius reflected, sitting on his bed and letting his eye wander around the cell. The floor tiles were cracked, the corners of the ceiling festooned with thick cobwebs, and the wall speckled with mildew. But then, how much could be expected of a dungeon? At least there _were _no rats.

Stomach growling, he reached for his trencher. All he'd been given to eat was a loaf of stale bread, which, to think on it, was not all that different from being in the service. And at least there was the consolation of a small bottle of good Cyrodiilian olive oil, which some sympathetic soldier had brought him. Troops from Cyrodiil always stocked those, for they were unaccustomed and, quite rightly so, off-put by the indigenous Nord custom of slathering their bread with butter.

Castorius ripped off a piece of the loaf, and dipped it in the oil sitting in a small bowl. The oil was nice and spicy, nearly flavorful enough to drown the dreariness of its vessel. Chewing, he scoffed internally at these barbarians, wasting perfectly good cooking-butter on their bread.

From some other cell, a long, haunted wail sounded the jail-complex, reverberating in the masonry. It was abruptly cut off by a clang, like a heavy iron pot clattering on the stone floor. Then it was quiet again. Somebody further away launched into a coughing fit.

And to think: just less than an hour ago Castorius had been ready to trade the joys of Aetherius for this. Well, at least he could be sure _this _place existed. There was something to be said for certainty at times.

No word of what went on outside had come to him. Had an actual war really broken out? If you'd asked him, he could've sworn a proper armed conflict between the Stormcloaks and the rightful imperial rule of Skyrim would never take place. Surely Ulfric Stormcloak was out of his mind if that was the case. Castorius had with his own eyes seen the kind of "army" the man boasted: miserable, poorly trained troops for the most part, with plenty of conviction but not any real battle experience. They could never have in a million years waged a successful war against the best-trained military in all of the known world. In fact, Ulfric should have damn well thanked his lucky stars that his actions thus far had been so well tolerated. He'd been allowed to rally people to his side, raise his own private army off the peasantry, and train them freely without getting hassled.

It had been only The High King Torygg, the nominal ruler of the province, and his heartfelt patience, completed with his prestige in the Emperor's eyes, mediating the situation and keeping the imperial forces from fully rolling in on the ill-equipped would-be rebels—from crushing their pitiful resistance before it had time to take even the first of its wobbly little baby steps.

_They would hardly break a sweat doing it._

Castorius was quite offended, then, that he should have been believed to have affiliated himself with such a foolish, doomed endeavor. Sure, he'd had tentative business with Ulfric, as any man of the game sought to cover all possible bases, but to abandon his cozy position to take part in this ridiculous enterprise to "liberate" the province from the Imperial rule? Talk about trading your jewels for marbles!

Of course, Castorius knew the allegations against him to be totally disingenuous. It was part of some charade, the nature of which presently alluded him. So he'd seen best to keep his mouth shut, and just play along. Among other reasons . . .

The brief post that had gotten him to talks with Ulfric in the first place—as a member of the city guard of Windhelm, the hub of the Stormcloak movement—had been among the most miserable of his life. The cold and the wind had been even worse up there, the food largely tasteless and sparsely supplied. But worst of all, the women had all but shunned him. One might have not anticipated it, but the frigid climate actually seemed to have frozen the local womenfolk's legs permanently together.

Not to mention the men with their hard, jealous eyes. Folks up there did not like outsiders.

It had lasted until Ulfric had declared that he'd replace all guards there with his own men. That Torygg had allowed this testified once more to his forbearance. But Castorius himself had been less stunned than he'd been delighted to have been called back. Unfortunately, though, against his own fantasies of having been re-instated in his previous, _very_ enjoyable post, he'd instead been arrested and held in custody for several weeks of uncertainty, awaiting a proper set of accusations.

It had been sheer torture. He'd even feared the King must have found out the truth.

For his previous assignment before the Windhelm gig, the one he'd been more than keen to get back to, had been as the personal sentry of the King's wife, Elisif the Fair. He though back fondly on that. Elisif, the beautiful Elisif, whom everybody quite rightly loved, but whom they all took for an innocent—that is, all those who, unlike Castorius, didn't know any better.

_Elisif, Elisif,_ he though wistfully. The soft, pale skin, and the arches of her full bosom, her hips, and her lubricious rump. The full lips and the way they adopted a seductive, playful smile before making love, the way they twisted in the throes of climax, and the pensive little pout they assumed afterwards as she lay spent beside him. Castorius found within himself a near desperate yearning to live those days again. A warm sensation flowed through him, and a ticklish glow lit between his thighs. He would have given much to stroke those ginger locks once more, to grab them as she traced an avenue of kisses down his abdomen. He missed the way she tasted, the subtle variety of flavor in the different regions of her supple, curvaceous form.

Not that it had been love, by any means—an emotion all but entirely alien to—

Somebody cleared a throat, and Castorius startled. He reflexively dropped his hands as a visual guard about his crotch.

It was Ahtar. He stood at the door of the cell, observing Castorius from behind the rusted bars. How long had he been standing there?

"How long have you been standing there?" Castorius asked.

Ahtar snorted lightly. "Not very."

"Was there something you wanted?" This was not the right time. Castorius was hardly in a mood for chatting.

Ahtar shrugged. "Not much," he said, ever the conversationalist.

Castorius drew a breath, let it out slowly, and stood up. He had to wince, for the lack of motion had stiffened his legs. He walked by the bars. "What's going on out there?"

Ahtar shrugged. "Don't know," he said. "Been down here."

"No news, then? Are we at war?"

"Like I said, I don't know. They're not in the habit of keeping me informed, your kind."

_Your_ kind. "You serve the Empire too," Castorius pointed out.

Ahtar's broad shoulders rose. "I guard." The shoulders fell. "I chop."

Astutely put. Instinctively, Castorius rubbed at his neck with the head still intact.

"Looks as if your fate has been postponed," Ahtar said.

"That's how it seems."

"And already I hear a rumor that Sybille got interested once the word went out to her. She's been asking about you, you know?" Ahtar's smile lacked humor. "Wondering if you're, uh, _available_."

Sybille Stentor. The thought of the court wizard sparked a grim foreboding in Castorius. He was not in the habit of fearing women, but that one in particular gave him the willies. Something unsavory lurked behind that dark cowl. "What does she want with me?" he asked, not prepared for any answer.

Ahtar got minimally animated. "I'll be damned if I know what that accursed woman is about!" he said. "All I know is she gives me the creeps, and I'll be glad to be wherever she is _not_." He gave Castorius a grave look. "Were I you, I'd think just the same." Then he smiled, and patted the bars on the door. "But then of course, you are here."

That was obviously just the problem. Castorius' mood darkened further. He turned around, said, "Unless you came here to gloat over my misery, I'd appreciate if you just left me be," walking to his bed.

When he turned back, he found Ahtar still standing there, staring. "What?"

There's something I never asked you, Castorius," said Ahtar.

"What's that?"

Ahtar looked at him, level. "Why did you do it?"

_Of course._ Castorius let out a sigh, and walked back to the door. "I didn't," he said.

"Ah."

Castorius frowned. "What do you mean 'ah'?"

"I figured you didn't."

"You did?"

"Yeah, makes perfect sense," Ahtar said. "Everyone here? Innocent, the lot of 'em." The corners of his dark lips twitched. "Yup, none come though here ever done anything wrong their entire lives—not a single gods-damned little thing. Clean consciences full, every cell." he barked a dry laugh. "In fact, the only guilty men I've ever seen here have been on the rack. And even those only materialize after some hours of pointless screaming and assuring of innocence." He considered that a moment. "Well, perhaps not exactly_ hours_." Was that professional pride shining through?

"And did it never occur to you," Castorius said, "that a confession acquired though torture may not be the most reliable one?"

Ahtar cocked a thoughtful eyebrow. "No, I don't suppose it ever did." He did not appear to be particularly bothered by that.

"Why do _you_ do it?" asked Castorius.

Ahtar grunted. "It's what they pay me for."

"Not that. Serve the Empire, I mean. After they let your people down?"

The Empire had all but utterly abandoned Hammerfell, the province from which the Redguard people hailed, by signing what was called The White-Gold Concordat with the Thalmor Dominion, ending the Great War twenty-five years ago. As a result of the treaty, Hammerfell had been partly ceded to the Dominion, leaving Hammerfell to fight its own bitter war against the Thalmor. Despite the unlikely success of that war—they had managed to drive out the high elves—the people of Hammerfell had rightfully been left with deep resentment against the Empire that had sold them out.

Ahtar remained silent for a few heartbeats. Then he shrugged. "Guess I was never much of a patriot to start with."

Castorius grunted. "Guess that would make you something of an oddity then." He could relate, of course: most people in Cyrodiil were very proud of their own people as well—_and_ of the Empire.

But not him.

After all, what was there to feel pride for about a massive machine-like structure where individual efforts carried no weight? Quite to the contrary, the Empire was a force like that of nature, which crushed underneath it all that was unique, all that stood on its own. In short: it quelled all possibilities for true heroism, eroded every step upon which a man could rise to make his own way to the stars. It was truly the the optimal object of veneration for the sheep, for the masses consisting of men apt for working as nothing more than pinions.

Did this make Castorius a hypocrite? Quite possibly, but he excused himself of the accusation on account of only working for the machine to forward his own goals. It was for him nothing but a way station, a necessary evil that he would seek to exploit to the best of his abilities as long as was needed. What else could he do?

Castorius' comment seemed to have made Ahtar contemplative. "It's not that simple, really," he said finally. "In a way I, like all my countrymen, _am_ a patriot. Maybe even more so than most."

"How is that?"

Ahtar smiled bitterly. "As you may know, Hammerfell has since time immemorial been a country divided."

Castorius nodded. The Crowns and the Forebears: they were the two factions that had waged war on each other for as long as anyone could remember, for reasons fantastically obscure to those whom it did not concern. The war against Thalmor had gotten them to temporarily cease hostilities, but it wasn't clear whether that was to be a lasting state of affairs.

"And as you know, there has been an uncharacteristically long period of peace ever since the Great War."

Castorius nodded again. "A permanent one?"

"Ha! When is anything permanent?" Ahtar shook his head. "Nay, ever since the war, the hostilities have slowly built anew. Stewing and stewing, like a nice pot of soup."

_Don't remind me!_ Castorius thought. It was roughly lunchtime. Soup sounded just about right.

"And so," Ahtar went on, "it is merely a matter of time before blood of my kinsmen will once more irrigate that arid land."

"And that's why you've left? To avoid it?" It made perfect sense to Castorius.

Not so with Ahtar. He spat on the floor-tiles, visibly agitated. "Never! Rather I'd behead myself on that chopping-block than ever do anything that cowardly!"

Despite being shaken by the big man's sudden outburst—and it calling into attention the undeniably cowardly thoughts within Castorius himself—he couldn't help but be tickled by the image thus evoked. He did his best to suffocate a smile, as it could be taken wrongly.

"No," Ahtar continued, his usual calm now a memory, "I left because of what I knew to be inevitable: the failure of the cause I'd been brought up with. But not to flee, mind you! To carry the ideas within me to safety, to hopefully one day return and revive them."

"And what would that cause be?" inquired Castorius. He wanted to add: "saving your own hide?" but held his tongue. He'd escaped that axe once today, and was less likely to do so again—not in this confined space.

Ahtar straightened his already imposing posture, making himself look even huger. "Unity," he proclaimed, as if a novel, revolutionary idea that had never before known daylight.

"Of your people?"

Ahtar gave a solemn nod. "I belong to a small but sound minority, which seeks to once more reinstate a king in Hammerfell. One ruler to unite the people long divided by petty disputes and power struggles."

Castorius didn't even want to try to imagine the extent of bloodshed they'd no doubt generate trying to decide who this king was going to be. He didn't say anything, of course.

All a sudden, he felt tremendously bored with the whole subject matter. He wished he'd never brought it up. He'd heard this sort of reasoning countless times before. A king—a king would solve our problems! Stop the fighting! Feed the hungry! Assure justice! And how much of those very things had any kingdom ever seen? What purpose would such an institution ultimately serve but the individual lust and avarice of the said ruler, and of those who either thought they could benefit from him, or, alternatively, take his place?

And who was Castorius to speak? Were those not the very things, lust and avarice, that drove him also? Though, with him it was different. He'd never wanted power, simply freedom from the power of others. Was that really too much to ask?

Castorius realized Ahtar was still talking, but he had not been listening. ". . . justice and the preservation of peace . . ." the man went on. Castorius quickly tuned back out. The look on Ahtar's face betrayed that he was no longer paying attention to his audience anyway. He was on a tangent. He sounded like a pet parrot, trained to repeat word-for-word what ever it was his master had dictated. That's how they all sounded, in the end.

Finally Ahtar stopped. "And would you not agree?"

Castorius feigned a slow, thoughtful nod of agreement. "Indeed, I would," he said.

Ahtar looked satisfied.

Before the big man had a chance to continue any further on the tiresome topic, Castorius said, "So, they way I see it, like me, you are a man of opportunities."

"An opportunist, you mean?" Ahtar asked, smiling obliquely.

Castorius waved a hand. "Semantics," he said. "The bottom line is: you don't just stand around waiting the axe to drop. You're not afraid to make a call you know will get you ahead, no matter how the people around you may see it."

"Do I detect some self-extenuation?"

"No!" replied Castorius. "I mean . . . well, yes."

"So—innocent?"

"Who's ever innocent?"

Ahtar gave a slow nod. "Point taken."

Castorius let a long breath. "What I'm saying is—" he said, stepping close to the jailer, "—you _get_ it."

Castorius could feel Ahtar's hot, heavy breath on his face. The man crunched up his brow. "And . . . ?"

Castorius peered behind the big man, ascertaining they were alone, then whispered, "You could help me." He just barely kept himself from cringing. It was a dangerous game he was playing; but then what did he have to lose?

Ahtar's nostrils flared near-imperceptibly. He regarded the shorter man through narrowed eyelids. "I could, could I?" he muttered, working his jaw.

A flicker of hope sparked within Castorius, as Ahtar seemed to be considering the insinuated proposal. It was now or never. "Yes," he said, "and nobody would need to know. I'm sure prisoners escape from here all the time."

Ahtar laughed. "I ought to feel affronted!"

Castorius bypassed that. "Especially now if there's fighting going on."

"_If._"

"You heard the guard! He specifically said 'Stormcloaks'. What else could it mean?"

"You'd be surprised," replied Ahtar.

_I doubt that,_ Castorius thought. He sighed, gathering momentum for one more attempt. "Look, we don't have much time," he said urgently. "If you could—"

His words were cut off by the sound of footsteps, several pairs of boots advancing towards them. Instinctively, he pulled back from the barred door, and Ahtar himself quickly turned around to welcome whoever approached.

Castorius cursed to himself. _So close!_ If only they hadn't squandered their time blathering about ineffectual political fancies . . .

The arrival was Captain Aldis, accompanied by three soldiers. "Captain," Ahtar said, "what's going on out there?"

Without replying to the Redguard's inquiries, Aldis pointed at the cell door. "Open, please."

Ahtar pressed the issue no further but simply turned around and started fitting a key inside the lock. He gave Castorius a brief glance that may have contained a pinch of condolence, even regret.

Once the door was open, Captain Aldis looked at Castorius, stone-faced. "Get out, prisoner."

"Aldis!" Castorius greeted with feigned joviality, stepping out and in front of his old friend. "Come to set me free, have you?"

The three soldiers apprehended him. Aldis snorted. "You wish." Then, for the first time since Castorius' arrest, the look in the guard-captain's eyes broke out from his thus-far unflappable role. There was perhaps a dash of smirk on his lips when he said, "The High King wants to see you."

At that, Castorius' face sagged in unison with his sinking heart. "Shit," he said.

This was exactly what he had feared.


	3. Chapter 3: Disconcerting Bedfellows

**Chapter 2: Disconcerting Bedfellows**

Your Grace," implored the sallow-faced, gaunt man wringing his hands in front of the royal seat. "surely you'll agree that—"

"I'll _agree_," came the High King Torygg's peremptory reply, "that you have wasted enough of my time as it is." Then, as the man seemed to deflate of all spirit, the King assumed a somewhat softer look, saying, "You've made your point," in a level voice, "and it will be duly considered—of that, you'll have my word."

The sickly-looking man recovered a bit at that. "Thank you, your Highness," he said. He made his awkward obeisance, then promptly retrograded, not daring to turn his back until he'd reached the stairs leading down.

Castorius snorted quietly to himself. Quite the freak-show this had proved to be.

He'd stood there for over an hour by then, at the sidelines of the High King's throne room, listening to a petition after a supplication after a briefing of military stratagem, vacillating between amusement and utter tedium. He'd expected a private hearing with the crowned head himself, not to partake in this absurd routine of his regnant responsibilities. Who would have thought the life of a king would prove to be so boring?

Well, Castorius would have, to think on it.

All the same, no words had been wasted on the prospect of war, nor on any battle or the earlier disturbance. The Stormcloaks had been mentioned once—in the context of 'geopolitical impregnability', whatever in gods' names that might have meant—but the topic of an immediate threat of a civil war was acutely conspicuous in its absence.

Suspicion was slowly stirring within him.

The expressions stood mostly placid on the faces of the attendants around the central space, where one supplicant after another stated their business and received Torygg's usually curt reply. Captain Aldis stood basically expressionless opposite of Castorius, his the job of the herald who ushered the supplicants and, if necessary, encouraged them to depart once their business had been judged as dealt with. This left Falk Firebeard, the High King's steward, free to stand by him, to whisper his advice into the regent's ear, and doubtless to brief in the necessary detail of the given person presenting their case.

The King's wife Elisif had her seat next to her husband, but Castorius did his best not to look upon her. This took a considerable amount of effort.

Two soldiers stood on each side of Castorius like a pair of automatons—good dogs to a man, of that there was little doubt. Was this the impression that _he_ had given in service? This machine-like unmalleability? Were their any individual thoughts behind those stony faces and expressionless eyes?

He did not want to think about that either, so decided to just try and ignore them.

The room itself could have been larger, he thought, as it was scarcely the size of a living room in the house of any given caste-noble. The High King's throne stood on a squat dais currently bathed in the light of the forenoon sun, which managed to give the man a nearly otherworldly impression. Castorius also had to admit that Torygg was quite an imposing sight in his own right, wearing his crown and his purple and turquoise royal garb. His proud, bearded face made him appear at least a good decade, if not two, older that his relatively young age, and the impression was further enhanced by the stout figure that his firm posture underlined. This was a man whose presence commanded respect, and was no doubt looking at a long and successful reign.

Even if he _was_ just a puppet.

Castorius looked towards the staircase to his left, at the line of supplicants. Was this to go on much longer? To his despair, the other of the two sets of arching stairs was still populated by plebs waiting their turn, the other set being reserved for those retreating. Above them loomed a large dome, and through the stained-glass windows lining it, the space was flooded with columns of sunlight—like scraps of mercy from a celestial paradise they would never attain.

Why was Castorius even there? He'd not been added to the line of people waiting for their turn, so at least it did seem like his business was not lumped together with the rest of the High King's routines. It was almost as if they had specifically wanted him present at this monotony. To show him what sort of power the regent wielded, perhaps? Did they really think this would impress him? Or maybe they had changed their minds about the beheading, and were now looking to bore him to death instead?

The whole court of Solitude appeared to be present. Even Sybille Stentor, the infamous court wizard, had deigned to participate—though she'd normally tend to spend the bulk of daylight in bed. For an important figure in the court, her schedule gravitated towards a peculiarly nocturnal nature. Though, underneath her dark-blue cowled robes, it was not always possible to tell for sure whether or not she was truly awake. She stood completely still, with not the tiniest of fidgets, just like an erect corpse. This image was strengthened by what skin her garb allowed a view of, namely her hands and a part of her face. They were very pale.

As if by a sixth sense, she noticed Castorius' eyes on her, and turned to meet his gaze. Her smile's power to unsettle was coterminous with its complete lack of warmth. Castorius promptly looked elsewhere. He suppressed the shiver that meeting the woman's eyes tended to give him. He could not say exactly what, but there was something unnatural about them. A certain malignant burning in them, contrasting with the otherwise icy mien.

As if in search for warmth and comfort, his eyes were then drawn to Elisif. The beautiful, young Queen was outwardly as stern as ever, trying to make herself at once regal and, to her best ability, unnoticeable. On the first account, Castorius judged, she did very well, her very young age and lack of experience considered. But how could she ever hope to not attract the attention of everyone in the room with her delicate, radiant presence? It was obvious she was the mammoth in the room everybody wanted to stare at, and yet nobody dared to. She was the reason, if there ever was any, that the King should be envied. Not that he had power over the province, such as it was, but that he had _her_.

As had Castorius. After a fashion, leastwise.

All care cast aside, he drank the sight of her: her silky pale complexion; the copper hair coming down in waves on her slender shoulders; those full lips, pursed as they were in an intimation of propriety, and Castorius could not help a smile at the thought of the surprisingly bawdy tongue they hid behind them.

All of a sudden, her eyes turned to meet his, and a vexed frown creased her smooth, coroneted brow. Her blue eyes flashed with irritation and the nostrils of her straight-edged nose flared, then she sharply averted her gaze.

Such a petulant show of disdain further damped Castorius' mood. He had, in his mind, been a perfect gentleman, so from where was this bleak wind now blowing? With growing displeasure, he searched the woman's face for a clue. She did not turn to look again.

To his dismay, however, Castorius noticed then that the King himself was glaring straight at him, and by the anger darkening his aspect, Castorius had no doubt in his mind the King had caught him eyeing his somewhat too young, and undeniably all-too-beautiful, wife. Castorius tried for a quick smile, friendly as to be obsequious, then quickly looked away, letting his eye wander all across the room, surveying in turn each person present in hopes of giving out an impression it was what he'd been doing all along.

He also took care to wipe the smile off his face while at it.

Castorius felt a cool sweat starting to gather upon his brow. He was treading very dangerous ground, he knew. Had the King any inkling of what had gone down between his wife and Castorius, he'd doubtless have him flayed—several times over, if if his knowledge of the details of the transgression went even a trifle beyond an inkling.

And yet, despite the eminent peril hanging above of his head, Castorius had a hard time keeping a smile from pulling at his lips at the memory of those fleeting nights of clandestine ecstasy. Despite himself, he stole another glance at the queen—her poised exterior of unassuming innocence that he knew for a facade, but that so perfectly hid the untamed beast he knew to lie within.

He felt a pang, then, that he at first took for guilt, but that on closer examination revealed itself as pity. The High King probably had no idea of the true person behind Elisif's mask, and thus had no way of being able to give her what she really longed for. The High King was undeniably a kind man, and no doubt in his way even worshiped his wife, but did not strike Castorius as a man of the arts, and that was indubitably the precise thing Elisif would have needed.

Maybe Castorius should be the High King.

Yes, that would be a position befitting him.

Well, it would be without all the actual work that actually went into it. In fact, the mere thought of it made him wary. Just looking at what the man had to deal with was more than enough to quell any and all desire for his post. No wonder if the High King had no energy left to properly satisfy his wife. Maybe Castorius could offer to do it for him, if for just a meager income. And perhaps a minor title that came with no real importance or responsibility.

Not that he could, Elisif's undeniably rare sort of beauty notwithstanding, possibly limit his amorous endeavors to just one woman. But perhaps it could be established that—

The soldier on his right shoved him hard in the shoulder. "Answer the King when he speaks to you, insolent dog!" he barked.  
><em><br>Who's the dog here?_ Castorius thought. He feigned a smile, however, and bowed down his head. "Your Highness?" He wondered if he should kneel, but did not do so.

Torygg did not seem to mind. He waved at Castorius. "Come forth, why don't you," he said impatiently.

Castorius stepped in front of the High King, giving the man a quizzical look. Perhaps pretending at innocence would be the prudent approach to take.

"You stand accused of high treason, soldier," the High King said.

Castorius raised an eyebrow, a gesture completely unpremeditated. "Yes, I believe I was to be executed upon the selfsame accusation. A ceremony unfortunately, um, _cut short_."

Torygg, would not be goaded. "So, you deny it?" The expression on his face was a shrewd one.

Castorius, at a loss as what to reply, kept his silence for a heartbeat or two. "I do not," he said. He thought there might have been a collective gasp in the room, but could not tell for the sound of rushing blood in his ears. What he was doing still felt idiotic, but he had his reasons.

"I see," the High King said. He gave Falk Firebeard a quick look. The man shrugged. Torygg turned back to Castorius. "Well, it matters not."

"No?" asked Castorius, taken aback.

Torygg shook his crowned head. "No. For if it did, you'd be standing here a head shorter."

Castorius was a bit surprised by the tepid murmur of laughter sounding from behind him. He turned to look, and found the crowd at the top of the stairs listening intently.

The High King frowned. "Get rid of these people," he said, waving a hand. "We don't need an audience."

At once, Captain Aldis gave a curt bow and went on to steer the people off. Even after being explained that the proceedings would continue after a recess, there were some separate grumbles from several individuals, griping about losing their positions in the queue.

As the rabble had been heralded out, the King looked around him. "Everyone else, take a break," he said, and continued "except for Falk", even though the man had not so much as budged. Elisif gave her husband an inquisitive look. He placed his hand on her slender thigh, smiled, and gave an affirmative nod.

As Elisif sailed past Castorius, she was careful not to acknowledge him in any way.

"Your Grace," said Captain Aldis with a questioning intonation, standing at rigid attention.

"You and your men are dismissed," Torygg replied.

Aldis frowned, giving Castorius a quick glance." Are you sure?"

"I should hope so—I _am_ the High King," Torygg reminded. Aldis gave a brief nod, then collected his cronies, and retreated.

"Sybille, dear," The King said softly, "you stay."

_Of course,_ Castorius thought. The outlandish woman had hardly made a move, obviously anticipating this.

_'Dear'?_

After a moment, it was just Castorius alone with the King and the King's most trusted. He felt oddly naked in front of their scrutiny. It did not help that he was forced to squint for all the sunlight on them. It felt an awful lot like being interrogated by some lower-level gods.

"So," Torygg started. "Guilty as charged, then?"

Castorius made no reply.

The High King let out a joyless laugh. "You can stop pretending now," he said. "I know the truth."

Castorius still said nothing, though his heart did pick up pace.

"Yes, do you think it a coincidence you still boast a head atop your shoulders?"

"Well, your Grace," Castorius said, his mouth dry. "I must admit I was wondering about that."

"'Wondering', he says," the King laughed, addressing his servants, "You hear that?"

Firebeard remained impassive; Sybille leered her eerie sneer.

Torygg re-assumed his seriousness. "I know what you've been up to," he said. "I know you're no traitor, but you've made some disconcerting bedfellows."

The ominous tinge in the Sovereign's voice was impossible to miss. Castorius could practically already feel his skin being pared. _He knows!_ he thought with panic, and felt his physique tense up.

A malignant smile appeared on Torygg's face, as he could no doubt read correctly into Castorius' body language. "Are you surprised I should know?" he asked. He shook his head. "You're not smart enough for a traitor, Castorius."

Oddly enough, Castorius found room in his frightened heart for a feeling of offense. "I'm not?" he said, voice cracking.

"No, You are not," Torygg confirmed. "A whoring, self-serving, petty crook is what you are. I know men like you like I know the backs of my hands. You reek of it!" The vehement contempt in his words made Castorius flinch a little, though he suspected there had been a sprinkle of deliberate exaggeration audible in the High King's voice.

Torygg leaned back, then, and smiled a great deal more sympathetically. "And that is why I need you."

Castorius couldn't stop his jaw from dropping. _Huh?_

"Huh?" he said.

Torygg laughed, delighted. "Oh, you should see yourself right now!" he howled. "What did you think I would do, flay you?"

"Well, as matter of fact—"

"Silence!" Torygg commanded, startling Castorius. He leaned forwards. "I know all about your petty dealing with the Stormcloaks. I knew all along."

"You did?" So this was not about Elisif at all? He _didn't_ know! Castorius might have been relieved, but in truth he still didn't feel anywhere near safety, and over all had a discomfiting foreboding about all of this.

"Yes," replied the King. "And I do not care."

Castorius frowned. "Then why—"

"Do not question me!" the King snapped. "As far as anybody is concerned, you're still a guilty man. And as such, I can order any punishment upon you I see fit."

Now, Castorius was not a man of law, but he was fairly sure that was not correct. There existed a clearly defined punishment for each crime committed. Best he let that be for now, however. He begun to wonder more and more where this was going, curiosity slowly taking a choke-hold on his fear.

The King nodded, satisfied. "Good, you decide to listen. Very prudent of you."

Castor chose to maintain that impression, and said nothing.

"What I need," Torygg went on, "is a man of few scruples." He pointed a finger at Castorius. "That would be you."

_Yes, thank you for clearing that up, your Obviousness, _Castorius thought. He simply nodded, despite feeling a slight inclination to argue with the High King's ruthless judgment of his character.

"For you also have a history of selling out to the Stormcloaks."

"I wasn't—"

The High King silenced him with a lifted finger. "_And_ you've personally dealt with Ulfric himself."

Torygg had him there. Ulfric had actually been quite pleasant to do business with. Not at all the tormented, war-mongering lunatic he was made out to be. But then few famous people ever lived up to their reputation.

Not that Castorius had any doubt about the man's ability for violent acts if they was needed to promote his cause.

"Are you listening?" Torygg asked, frowning.

Castorius hastened to nod. "Yes, your Highness, I'm listening."

"Good," the King said. "So you listen, and you listen good, and I'll tell you precisely what I need you for."

And so he did. It was not exactly what Castorius would have expected.

It was probably worse.


	4. Chapter 4: Out Of the Frying Pan

**Chapter 4: Out of the Frying Pan . . .**

It was looking as if Castorius' execution hadn't been called off after all, merely postponed. The only real difference was that the High King Torygg had decided to relegate the honors of the deed to Ulfric and his Stormcloaks.

Castorius had simply stared at the High King, as the plan had unfolded in front of his increasingly perturbed eyes. And here was the gist: Castorius was to be a spy.

A mother-buggering _spy_!

It was Torygg's rationale that since Castorius was supposedly on good terms with the leader of the Stormcloaks, and since he evidently had a glib tongue on him, he'd have no trouble explaining to the man that he had, with the help of his connections, managed to just barely escape from his execution, and was now looking to join Ulfric in his quest to liberate the province from its "corrupt and unjust rule".

The extra incentive for Ulfric to accept him was his supposed ability to provide the Stormcloaks with inside information about the workings of the Imperial army, and so help them to defeat it.

In reality, or course, it was Castorius' job to gain Ulfric's trust, and to provide Torygg with any information on the Stormcloaks' operation he could gather. He was supposed to get as close to Ulfric as possible, so he could get his hands on the really vital information.

More than anything, Torygg confided, he was looking for a way to constrain Ulfric's rebellion, to steal its wind before it got started blowing in earnest; before any lives got unnecessarily wasted. As he'd said that, Castorius thought it was the most sincere the High King had been that whole time. It was at that moment his stern exterior had appeared to crack, and to reveal the true man within. Right then he'd looked almost as young as he actually was.

The moment passed quickly, however, and the stone-faced regent returned, staring at Castorius with his hard blue eyes. "Well, have you naught to say?"

What was he expecting to hear? _You're insane!_ Castorius thought._ I'll never agree to your mad plan, it would be tantamount to flinging myself off the cliffs of the Blue Palace!_

Probably, though, that would have been incorrect. Ulfric was unlikely to give him such an easy death—he was undoubtedly going to have Castorius interrogated first. But even if he did—and he _would_—spill out any lies they wanted before the beatings could start in earnest, that would probably not avail him any. If confessions you beat out of your prisoners were untrustworthy by definition, it was doubly true about those given before you even got to it. So best to beat them anyway.

Castorius was no friend of pain.

He cleared his throat, arranging his thoughts carefully in his mind before speaking. "With all due respect, Your Highness, Ulfric is not a stupid man. If I simply walk to him, he's going to suspect something."

Torygg stood up straighter on his throne, the expression on his face getting even harder. "And do you take _me_ for a stupid man?" he asked.

"No, your highness," Castorius hastened to reply. "No, of course not."

The regent nodded. "You'd better not," he said. "I don't think I need to remind you your life still hangs by a very thin thread. The end of which I hold." He made an odd gesture, then, with the fingers of his right hand pinched together, as if holding the end of the mentioned thread. Once he'd concluded this bizarre pantomime, he continued. "No, I'm not a stupid man," he said. "Do you honestly think that I would send you to Ulfric not thinking he will suspect something?"

Castorius tried to make sense of that.

"Of course he will!" Torygg spat."In fact, I'm counting on it."

The only thing Castorius understood was that he did not at all like where this was going.

Torygg twisted his lips into a sardonic smile. "He will be suspicious, alright," he said. "For in addition to not being stupid, neither is he a fool. He will suspect but not act on it, not immediately. He will want to see what my angle is."

Forgetting himself, Castorius blurted, "What _is_ your angle?"

At that, the smile, as unfriendly as it had been, was wiped off of the High King's face. He said nothing, simply repeated his earlier silly gesture, giving Castorius a very significant look. It spoke more than any words ever could have, and Castorius' mouth snapped shut.

"I'll hear no more of this," Torygg then said with a wave of hand. "I've made my offer, and should you decline it, it will be back to the dungeons with you." He leaned forward with a cruel gleam in his eyes and a loathing quirk to his mouth. "I trust you realize that no-one is going to ask for you?"

Castorius had to swallow. His eyes flicked to Sybille who was staring at him with her cold smile.

_Well, perhaps not 'no-one'._

Castorius nodded his head repeatedly as a sing of acquiesce. "You don't give me much of a choice, Your Highness."

The King smiled. "I'm glad that realization finally dawned on you." He stood up. "Falk here will provide your with the necessary information. I trust you'll be glad to hear I'm giving you free hands to best decide how to convince Ulfric." He looked at Castorius mockingly, said, "I'm sure this one thing I can trust you with," then stepped off the dais, and started walking towards his chambers.

Well, at least he didn't seem to dismiss Castorius entirely—for what ever it was worth.

"Your Highness," Castorius called after the retreating regent. "How will I be able to walk the streets of Solitude unnoticed? Surely people will wonder why I'm at large again."

Torygg had explained it all, how there never had been any Stormcloak attack. It had been a decoy to get Castorius away from his execution—which itself, he was starting to doubt, had been but mummery. They'd still be surprised to see Castorius unshackled, however, with his head still firmly propped atop his shoulders.

The High King turned back to regard him with contempt, and snorted. "Do you think anyone cares?" he asked. "You will find that nobody will even recognize you. That's just how people are." He continued walking. "No, as far as they are concerned, you are already dead."

As Castorius looked after the retreating Torygg, he though, _Maybe they are correct to think so._

He turned, and was startled to find Sybille standing right next to him. Amused, the court wizard flashed her teeth. "So, you're a free man," she said.

"Such as it is," mumbled Castorius.

"It's a shame you and I didn't have a change to get to know each other better," Sybille said in her slow, serpentine way, looking him from head to toe. "You strike me as a man of good... _taste_" She flicked her tongue across her upper lip.

For a while, Castorius could do nothing but stare at her. "Yes, w-well," he said. "Perhaps some other time."

_Now, why would you go and say something like that!_

"Yes," Sybille smiled. "Perhaps." She gently stroked Castorius' cheek with the back of her hand, winked, and then quite unhurriedly walked after the High King.

Castorius made no attempt to hold back a shudder that time.

Now that he thought of it, whatever it was that awaited him at the hands of Ulfric, he was happy to get away from Solitude.


	5. Chapter 5: At Large, By And Large

**Chapter 5: At Large, By And Large**

Torygg had not been kidding. As Castorius had walked the streets of Solitude, nobody had given him as much as a second glance.

Well, a few women had, but that was to be expected.

But, in the main, everyone had just been skimming the pavement as if nothing at all out of the ordinary had ever taken place. Castorius had heard it said that, of all animals, fish had a peculiarly short memory; that they just about lost all recollection of things that had taken place just seconds ago, no matter how traumatic.

Perhaps, he reflected, plebs were the same.

He was sitting on a low cobblestone fence by a guard-tower just outside the city, munching on a Juniper Berry Crostata he'd snatched for a quick lunch. Despite the fresh-out-of-the-oven crunch of the crust and the highly pungent snap of the fresh-picked berries hitting just about all imaginable spots after weeks of near-definite culinary drabbery, it would of course be nowhere close to a sufficient feast. He was saving himself, though, for he anticipated a more satisfying meal lurking in the near future. Nothing quite matched the sweetness of the fulfillment of a pleasure delayed, and he was looking to pillage all the forborne enjoyment stashed within that particular cache.

Though, obviously, the culinary sort was not the only sort of flesh he anticipated rejoicing in. The thought of the soft, warm folds of feminine dimensions was enough to send his entire body into a state of aching. It was _long _overdue!

At that moment, as Castorius distractedly stuffed the last morsels of the pastry into the confines of his maw, a young woman of salient proportions sailed right past him, as if conjured by his roused ribald mind. The woman's purple-and-green gauze dress was light and skimpy in fabric, perfectly suited for such a warm summer noon. The hem just about reached the knee, allowing for a charitable view of the well-formed smooth legs, the skin of which was so pale as to reflect the rays of midday sun right back at it, rivaling with the star in brightness, practically one-upping it. And as the sun gave life, the sight stirred its own within Castorius' amorously deprived physique.

The rest of her had also been put together with care, and the snug-fitting cut of the gown didn't leave much quarter for guessing. Auburn hair framed her delicate but strong-cast features, and cascaded in voluminous curls about her freckled shoulders. It waved in interlocked layers as she walked, further tousled by the soft breeze.

The sort of feeling captivating Castorius right then he supposed the closest to love he'd ever get. The shallowness of the notion did not escape him, but there were times a man and his fate simply had to shake hands and learn to get on.

The woman, noting his stare, then briefly returned it. A knowing smile appeared on her lips, and she gave Castorius a not-entirely unappreciative look, scanning in a matter of seconds his own undeniably firmly-shaped form before continuing on her way down the path to the left leading to the Solitude docks. The swing of those well-rounded hips may have picked up an extra sway at the face of Castorius' yearning gaze, as she sashayed down the slope with self-assuredly disenchanted casualty, like any care in the world would without question step out of her way upon encounter.

There was nothing for him to do but to stare after her, until all possible care had been taken to ingest every last drop of the near-divine vision.

No, a divine vision would have come far behind. There was a paradise, Castorius knew, and it resided in the nooks and crannies of the artworks of mundane design like the one now disappearing behind a bend on the ascending path.

He wondered if he should go after her. Surely everything else could—_should_—wait.

"Not bad, huh?" It was a voice behind him, startling Castorius out his reveries.

A tall and slim man around his mid-thirties with neatly combed dark-brown hair, dressed in worn-out black robes, smirked at Castorius. He winked an eye, the lid of which drooped slightly, and nodded after the now gone apparition. "Like the look of that, huh?"

Lewd as he may have been, the _nudge-nudge-wink-wink_ type of chatter partaken of by concupiscent men looking to bond in their shared depravity had never rubbed off on Castorius. Nonetheless, he'd gotten sufficiently proficient pretending at it upon challenge; just enough not to evoke their scorn, and to shake their caddish schoolboy-waggery off his back.

So he twisted his face as a mirror-image of this sneering lout's self-pleased cast, and said, "Yeah, I wouldn't mind a bit of that!" in his best brute-voice. He threw in as extra spice an impish little chuckle, complete with a click of his tongue and a grossly exaggerated wink.

He was just about to congratulate himself on account of this thespianic feat, when the face of the other man suddenly assumed a seriousness verging on gravity. "She's my sister," the man said flatly.

_Oh._

There was a stretch of silence right then, with nothing but crickets and the wind.

"Um, sorry," muttered Castorius awkwardly, the man staring at him with the angriest lack of expression he'd seen. He was quickly weighing his chances of beating this guy in a brawl; then trying to figure out the last time he'd ran really fast. "I, uh, didn't of course intend to—"

But the explanation was cut short by a sudden burst of air scratching its way out the man's nostrils. His face convulsed, and he folded up, taken by a fit of guttural cackles.

Castorius stared at the man, blinking. "Um . . ."

The man howled, thumping on his thigh. "Oh!" he managed, between whelps. "You should have seen yourself." Finally, wiping his eyes, he gave Castorius an almost pitying look. "She's not my sister," he said. "I've never seen her before in my life."

"Oh," was all Castorius could think to reply.

"Do you think," the man said, calmed down now, "that were she my sister, I'd be here talking to _you_? Huh?"

"Well—"

"No, I think not. I'd have better things to do with my mouth, if you catch my tenor."

Castorius frowned. "Sorry, what?"

"Ah!" the man breathed, already moving on to bigger and loftier things. "What a beautiful day we're having, eh?" He closed his eyes and breathed in deep. He went for his satchel and dug out a tanned leather-canteen. Unstoppering it, he offered it to Castorius. "Drink?"

Castorius put up a refusing hand, and shook his head. "Thanks."

The man looked at Castorius, mildly taken aback, shrugged and took a long swig. He let out an 'ah,' chugged another one, a third, then tugged the stopper back in the bottle and the bottle in the bag.

"Starts out the day, huh?" Castorius asked—in his mind—neutrally. Trying not to judge, stumbling at the countdown.

Something about drunkards to really twist at his gonads.

The man smiled, evidently oblivious to any sarcasm in Castorius' inquiry. "You bet!" he said. "Never saw the point of traveling this word stone-sober. Seems like what an utter moron would do!" He quickly raised a condescending brow, nudging at Castorius. "No offense, of course"

Castorius managed a unenthusiastic half-smile. "None taken."

"No," said the man, sizing Castorius up. "Of course not." He stuck out his hand. "Name's Sam. Sam Guevenne."

With some reluctance, Castorius offered his. "Janus Castorius."

"Nice to meet you, Janus." The man's grip was firm and sweaty.

Nobody ever called him "Janus." "Castorius, if you please," he said. "Or Castor, for short." _If you must._

The man nodded, still gripping Castorius' hand. "Alright," he said.

When Castorius finally had his hand back, he conspicuously wiped it at the back of his trousers.

"So . . . Cas," the man said, "what's a man like you up to on such a lovely day? Up to no good, I'm sure! Huh?"

Castorius, unsuccessfully trying to evade the man's jabbing elbow, said, "Oh, you know. Imperial business," gesturing at his attire. He had to admit it felt good to be wearing it again, despite how he felt about the thing it represented. But perhaps mentioning the Empire would get this man off his back, as many around here tried to stay as far from Imperial affairs as possible.

Just thinking about it, though, only managed to bring his mind back to the errand ahead. His guts took a dive at the thought. Falk Firebeard—or_ Talk Tiredrear_ as Castorius had aptly, if not too cleverly, renamed the man while suffering though his verbose monotone of instruction—had left it quite beyond reasonable doubt this was not to be a leisurely assignment.

Castorius' head still felt rather loose on his shoulders.

"Ah," Sam said, not betraying any sign of being intimidated by the outfit. He produced the most slovenly mockery of a military salute. "Hail to the Septim!"

The Septim Empire had, of course, ended a couple hundred years back.

Castorius flashed a brief indulgent smile, and said, "Well, it was nice meeting you," making to leave.

"Where you headed, Cas?"

"Me?" He quickly fumbled for a lie. "Towards the Pale." Too slow.

"Ah!" Sam's features cleared. "That's where I'm bound, too." _How did I guess?_ "What a pleasant coincidence!"

That, of course, it was not.

Castorius tried to think a way out of the predicament. He did not feel like listening to this fellow the entire way to the Pale. No doubt he was full-stocked with amusing anecdotes and tall-tales, all fished straight out of the fumes of the flagon. Castorius' mind was running on empty, though. Between the blood just slowly returning to the higher regions of his anatomy, and the dread of the pending execution still thumping in the back of his head—the memory of the earlier attempted head-extracting cleaver still fresh as pastries—he could not for the life of him think of anything to say that might sufficiently discourage Sam.

He cursed inside—why had he been damned with such good manners? "Oh sure," he said, the peppiness of his own voice grating his ears, "could always use some company, I suppose."

True enough, only not this kind.

"Great!" Beaming, Sam looked about. "So, how are we traveling?"

Firebeard had afforded Castorius a letter of attorney with which to lease a horse from the Solitude stables. "Well, _I'm_ going to take a horse," he said, a flicker of hope igniting that this might be his ticket out of the thicket.

No such luck. "Alright," Sam said. "Lucky chance, I've got my own."

"Ah." Castorius hoped he didn't look too crestfallen on the outside.

"Sure is nice to have someone to talk to on the way!" said Sam blithely.

As Castorius revealed his teeth, he felt he may as well have been grimacing in great pain. "It sure is!"


	6. Chapter 6: The Company You Keep

**Chapter 6: The Company You Keep**

It was no use. Castorius supposed he might as well have mercy on the exasperated sigh boiling inside him and just offer it a way out. While he was at it, he also made a point of permitting the old eyes to roll back and up towards the top of his skull.

Not that Sam was like to notice anyway. He was way too much enraptured by his own tales of caddishness and cowardice, told with such vigor that it was as if they'd never before been received by a pair of eager ears such as the ones Castorius was now doing his damnedest to turn off altogether —with minimal imaginable success.

It was exactly as Castorius had predicted, too. He'd known from the get-go what this fellow was all about. The man had practically proclaimed it out loud with his entire being. Castorius wondered if there was anything about this guy beyond what met the eye.

Well, there were his stories, for one, which mostly met the ear. And none too gently, either.

Each yarn came complete with own its tangents and byways, going round and round their precarious yet predictable merry routes, however always returning to the ever-recurring themes clearly closest to the heart of the narrator himself: carousing and coupling.

It had started with a brief account of Sam's past fortnight, initiated by Castorius' well-intentioned, but obviously badly misplaced, question: "so what do _you_ do?" The time-period in question Sam had, in his own words, spent "wasted like big pair of balls on a monk", thus explaining the fact that his memories of it were fragmentary at best.

"Well, the best fragments I recall!" he'd guffawed, then went on to describe them in detail.

Once it had been sufficiently established what an indefatigable conquistador of skirts the man indeed was, and how ferociously unquenchable his thirst, he'd moved on to more general matters. Namely, to start with, anecdotes of the similar life events and adventures of people known to him. This went for enemies and friends alike, though, based on his description, it was for the most part hard sledding trying to tell apart those two categories of affiliation.

Then, as they'd passed the town of Dragon Bridge, crossing the overpass so mentioned in the town's name, Sam had confided to Castorius the lewd taxonomy of the Dragons'—or the _Dov_'s—mating practices, many of which had purportedly carried a remarkably steep death-toll, mere serious injuries set aside.

Upon passing a ravished carriage—the horses dead, people nowhere in sight—Sam had given his delineation on what had most likely happened to the commuters. At that point, Castorius had admittedly not only been bothered by the man's wagging tongue, but been positively shocked by the vivid, nauseating details of his speculations. The way he'd done it was the worst part. How he'd described scenes of murder, rape, and torture—with the exact same insouciance as he'd been retelling the smutty yet basically harmless minutia of offhand brothel-visits—had for a moment made him sound less like a loose-jawed whore-monger and booze-hound, and more a callous and inhuman sociopath.

At least he'd not seemed particularly pleased by such images, but simply interested—if in a particularly disengaged manner.

After such a dark dive, it had been like a breath of fresh air to return to the themes of tail-chasing and befuddlery. The latest in the succession of which was a no-holds-barred narrative about Sam's last brief visit to Cyrodiil, upon which he'd patronized a bordello, and there bedded "the most honest to gods corpulent harlot on the four corners of the wide green Nirn." Castorius, contrary to his better judgment, had to admit that that one had had its more amusing moments. He'd even cracked a smile or two that he'd not had to altogether fake.

The nearly—or entirely—unremitting mouth-running had of course dried the man's said orifice, and he was presently draining the last drops of his canteen. "Ah, shucks!" he said, tossing aside the empty thing. "Knew I should have reserved more!" He slanted Castorius a look, begrudgingly smacking his mouth. "So, not a drinking man, huh?"

Castorius lifted his shoulders. "What can I say?"

"Hmm," Sam muttered. "I don't trust a man of no obliquities."

_I'm not exactly begging for your trust, friend._ "Oh, I've got 'em, alright! Make no mistake."

"Really? So, what's your vice?"

"Vice" was not like to be the first moniker Castorius would sling at his propensities. But in his mind it still very much outshone the tired old guilt-laden conception of "sin" the self-flagellatory subtype of the spiritually-minded were so fond of bandying about.

Because, after all: why would the gods have given the mortals the ability to enjoy the meager measures of their perishable flesh, if not to go for it? At least he _thought_ it was the gods who'd done it. Who else?

Unfortunately, though, religion by and large bored him to smithereens.

"Well," he said, "you might guess."

"Ah!" Sam's features cleared. "One for the wenches, then."

Castorius replied with a conciliatory smile. Guilty_ as charged._

Sam waved his finger at him. "I knew it, you know. The moment I lay my eyes on you. I said to myself, 'Sam. Now that there is a man even _you_ could learn something from.' Am I wrong? Huh? Tell me I'm not wrong."

Castorius laughed. "You're not wrong, Sam."

Sam gave a delighted giggle, like a little girl, then asked, "When was your first time?"

"Well, I'd rather not go there." replied Castorius.

"Oh, come on! You can—"

"I was twelve."

Sam's eyebrows shot up. "Oo!" He grinned. "Not bad, not bad. And her?"

Castorius cleared his throat. "Twenty."

Sam settled for an appreciatory whistle for that one.

"Suffice it to say," said Castorius, a tingle of pride on his cheeks,"that I was a very precocious child." As a whole, he had few memories of his childhood. Perhaps only that one. Could have been worse.

"Though not overtly pre_cautious_, I take it," Sam said.

Castorius snorted. "No." Suppose some things never changed.

"Ever been in love?" Sam asked, a question as unexpected as it was logical.

The answer was sufficiently provided by the shake of Castorius' head.

Sam did not seem interested in pressing the issue further, and they enjoyed a rare and welcome respite of silence.

_Love,_ Castorius thought, as if it were a swear-word. He'd seen with his own eyes men killed over such foolishness. And even a fairer number doomed to a miserable survival. There was no change he'd ever temper with such a surefire recipe for disaster. Seeing his share, he'd always taken all possible care not to get entangled in that particular web of woe. The species of spider came to mind, in which the female ate the male right after coupling. Such was the sad fate of the androgenic arachnid. Everything necessary had been extracted from the poor bastard, so he had to go. Obsolete.

That would never happen to Castorius. In fact, he'd made it certain that were someone to simply use and discard, it would be him. He could charm them, he could entertain them, could even love them in sense—perhaps keep going back to them—but he would never allow for himself to be caught by them. Never.

Sometimes it happened more neatly then others. Many of the women knew the nature of their involvement, shared his non-committed stance, and didn't even try to make anything more of it. But then there were those that didn't, who did try.

So obviously there had been a time or two that he'd been forced to break someone's heart. But by morning he'd already usually feel better.

"What are you thinking about?" Sam asked.

"Nothing." Castorius shook his head.

"I bet I know."

Castorius met the man's stare. He had a sly grin on him. "What then?"

"That broad back in Solitude," Sam said. "You're thinking how you'd like to give her one. Huh?" He laughed. "I know cause that's what I'm thinking, too." He licked his lips. "Mm, mm, mm, have to say they don't come so fine none too often, the skirted mortals."

Castorius tried to pay the man no mind. _In a way, I guess, it's nice to be in the company of someone who makes _me_ look like the gentleman,_ he thought. He had, of course, in his way always deemed himself one. Nowhere did it say a gentleman was supposed to be virtuous. Did it?

"Yes, siree," Sam went on. "The drink, it puts me in a restless mood it does. I believe tonight I will find me a place to spend some of my pocket-money. Oh yeah."

"I bet you will," Castorius said, unenthusiastic.

"You do?" Sam asked, shooting a sideways look with one arched brow. "Are you a betting man, by any chance?"

"Nope, can't say that I am." Was that even a lie?

"Ah, too bad," replied Sam. "Always love a little wager, myself."

"Why do you ask?"

The sly look had returned. "Why? You interested?"

"It depends." Castorius didn't quite himself know what he was doing.

Sam bared his drink-stained teeth. "You like pranks?"

Now was Castorius' turn to cock a brow. "Pranks? What am I, twelve?"

Sam laughed. "We're all twelve inside," he said. "Twenty, thirty-five, seven thousand; don't make no difference."

"I'll not argue with you there," Castorius muttered. Mainly he was deeply regretting having pressed the issue at all.

Sam, appearing to catch Castorius' drift, snorted softly. "Not with me, then?"

"Sorry. Not really my thing."

"That's alright," replied Sam. "Guess I'll have to find someone else."

"Guess so."

"Let me know if you change your mind."

"Oh, don't you worry about that." It was not likely to happen.

"Ah!" Sam let out a hacking cackle. "Oh, that reminds me!"

Castorius drew breath. _Here we go again._

However, it seemed as if he could thank his lucky stars. There would be time for no more stories, for even if he had all but completely lost track of to their position, his eyes now picked up a very welcome sight. It was a signpost, just coming up at the side of the road, proclaiming: "Morthal".

He was saved!

"Uh, Sam," he interrupted the man. "I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to stop you there." He was, of course, not sorry in the least. "This is my stop."

"Huh?" said Sam. "We're not to the Pale, yet."

"Yeah, I know. But I have to make, um, a service stop."

"Ah!" Sam's expression took on a knowing glint. "I see. You old dog!"

"I've no idea what you're talking about," replied Castorius.

"I'm sure you don't!"

They stopped at the crossroad, the sharp turn to Morthal to their left. The path sloping down towards the town was scantly visible underneath all the mire. All around them the ground was covered in gray slush, despite it being the middle of summer.

"Guess this is where we part," Castorius said, while simulating something like a prayer in his mind that Sam would not come up with some excuse to follow him.

To his immense relief, then, the other man just nodded. "Suppose so." He reached out to land a light punch on Castorius' shoulder. "Stay out of trouble, huh? Or don't!" He winked, clicked his tongue, and spurred his horse onward. As he went, he broke into an off-key song, singing with a raspy tenor. The lyrics, it scarcely needed to be added, were racy in nature.

_Well, that was relatively painless_! Though Castorius was glad to be rid of his loud-mouth of a companion, there was still no doubt that—all things considered—his day so far had shown a clear upwards course. Suppose when you got out of bed with the thought that it was to be the very last time, and when it then turned out that—contrary to your anticipation—you got to keep your head after all . . . well, there scarcely seemed much point in complaining. Castorius felt as if each breath of open air drawn into his lungs was another chance to turn things around.

It scantly even mattered whether or not he was merely deluding himself. For, if a delusion it was, it was a sweet one.

Castorius rode cautiously down the muddy slope of a path, the horse's hooves sinking into the muck with sucking, squelching sounds. The town of Morthal came into view. It was a collection of two-storied houses with thatched saddle-roofs, clustered around something like pond of swampy, smelly water, connecting at its northeastern corner to the surrounding marshes. A faint fog hovered in the air, smelling of swampland. Some scattered heavy and wet flakes of slow fell ungracefully through the air. They lost their own color and merged into the sludge instantly upon contact with the ground.

It was a small town, and sparsely populated, so not too many people were about. Most folks you saw were the guards patrolling the muddy streets, and an odd citizen here, another there, going about their business. Nobody seemed particularly interested in Castorius' arrival, though he did get shot with a couple passing, halfheartedly disapproving glares. The normally none too welcoming attitude towards strangers mixed with the displeasure of laying eyes on the Imperial colors, and so Castorius' uniform no doubt added a crease or two to the scornful frowns afforded to him.

Not that such a thing carried any weight in his mind at the best of times.

He got off of his horse, and walked it on the planks of the pier surrounding the body of water, which provided something like a dry walkway to the houses residing beside it. The wood was covered by a layer of mire brought in by the boots of the inhabitants.

Castorius stopped in front of one of the houses, tied the reins of his horse to a pole of the railing at its front. He took a deep breath, and stalked up the stairs. He stopped at the door, and prepared himself. In this house lived a relatively affluent merchant who, like his kind often did, had the habit of staying out of town on business, traveling widely all across Tamriel.

Castorius straightened up his uniform and rehashed the lines he'd long since memorized. He'd need them ready at hand in case the man was home. "Sir, official Imperial business." He cleared his throat and deepened his voice. "_Official_ Imperial business, sir . . . official _Imperial _. . . "

It would have to do.

He shook himself from head to toe, gave the door three confident pummels, and waited.

After two dozen or so escalated heartbeats, the lock clicked and the door creaked open. Behind it stood not a middle-aged, puffy-faced affluent barrel-belly at all, but in its stead a slim, black-haired beauty in her mid-twenties. She wore a quizzical expression, and appeared somewhat surprised when taking a look at Castorius' attire. Despite it being midday, she looked like she had been pulled out of her sleep—with dewy eyes and disheveled hair, dressed in an expensive-looking silken nightgown.

Castorius said nothing, just raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

The woman then let the door open up all the way. She stepped aside, giving him an expectant look.

Not home, then. How fortunate!

After a casual look about to see whether he was being observed, Castorius eagerly entered.  
>He did not really even care if someone was watching.<p>

Once the door banged shut, he took an assertive step towards the woman. He reached out, and pulled at the lace bindings at the front of her gown and the woman did nothing to stop him. The gown came loose, releasing a pair of voluminous breasts with large, brown nipples.

Castorius closed his hands around the circuit of the warm, heavy flesh and gave a gentle squeeze, feeling the concise, lumpy texture underneath the soft skin. He smiled, and a long-held, ragged breath was released though his nostrils.

A faint smile played at the corners of the woman's lips. "Where have you been?" she asked.

Before there was time for Castorius to let any answer out of his opened mouth, the woman was all over him, shoving her tongue inside it. He pressed his now-invigorated crotch against her, and felt a hot shiver.

He pulled his mouth away from hers and looked into her hungry cobalt eyes. "Nice to see you, too, Alva," he breathed.

It was no lie.

Alva, making no reply, reinserted her tongue, and started pushing Castorius towards the bed in the corner of the room. Never discontinuing to eat away at his tongue—like she'd been kept hungry for weeks, and was planning to devour it—she started to undo his uniform. Once his breastplate clonked on the floorboards, she suddenly pulled back, frowning.

The woman slapped Castorius hard across the mouth. She gave him a hard stare. "Where _have_ you been?"

Castorius smiled, face stinging. He tasted blood, but the taste was sweet in his mouth. "I've missed you," he said.

Once again, no lie.

A ferocious grin spread across Alva's face. "Oh, I bet you have!" She shoved Castorius hard, toppling him on the bed. She then dropped her gown next to the breastplate, and dove right after him.


	7. Chapter 7: A Dinner for Two

**Chapter 7: A Dinner for Two**

A delightfully piquant salty aftertaste in his mouth, Castorius had even more anticipation for what was to come next.

After they had spent the better part of an hour making love—for that it was what he chose to call it, even if that was stretching it in terms of accuracy of description pertaining to the factual content of the transaction—there was no more prolonging the unavoidable. Castorius' stomach demanded all the equivalent gratification and nurture as had just befallen his nether colleague. And it, alongside with his crony Palate, was about to receive an indulgence nearly worth the past days of drudgery and squalor.

In other words, it was time for some food.

One nice feature of Alva—in addition to her shapely breasts and her fully-curved posterior—was that for a woman she had a very good grasp on preparing a tasty meal. She also shared Castorius' enthusiasm for eating well, and it fortunately looked as if the fuel she ingested went straight into those full, pleasing to both eye and touch proportions of her form.

She laid the trencher on the table, food steaming and emitting a vibrant aroma that—now that his other urges had been duly sated—set Castorius' whole being in a state of anticipation.

The main course of today was boar, chopped into pieces sized about half a fist, roasted while wrapped in thin slices of bacon—a method called barding. The idea of the bacon was to give the naturally dry meat the juiciness it begged for.

The food was excellent, consistency of the meat just perfect, and the two distinct aromas of pork played together in a smooth harmony—the boar taming the overtly greasy nature of the bacon, and the bacon itself lending the dry boar some of its succulence.

The wine that went with it, however, left something to hope for. It was alright, but just that. Unimaginative, without dimension or variety. It had a single flavor at the first mouthful, and it never went anywhere. Bulk, in a word.

Castorius found himself pining for the wine made in the arid and temperate climate of Colovia in the south of Cyrodiil. Yes, that would have been just perfect for boar.

Alva smiled at Castorius, returning him to here and now. "You didn't tell me you were in the military," she cooed, obviously not entirely displeased by this revelation.

"I didn't?" Castorius could have sworn he had. But then he scarcely had any memory of what lies he'd fed this particular woman.

"Nuh-uh," Alva reprimanded, a sly smile on her, "you told me you worked as a fisher."

"Ah." So that story-line. Castorius only employed it very occasionally, as it hardly impressed most women. "Well, I _do_ fish . . . " He'd caught a small roach on line and sinker once. "At times."

Alva slanted a look under her sharply drawn dark brows, as to say, "come on, now."

"Tell you the truth," Castorius said. _More like anything but._ "I'm not at liberty to reveal details." He tapped the side of his nose. "Top secret Imperial business." He hoped that in the likely case of her not buying it, the whole thing might pass for a jest.

But Alva just pursed her lips, impressed, and evidently quite excited as well. "Well, I'd never have guessed." She took another bite of her food, but kept her eyes on Castorius. He thought she looked at him sort of funny now, but did his best not to make anything of it. Had he spoken in haste?

After some minutes of silence, save for the two chewing mouths and the hearth crackling in the background, Alva took a sip of her wine, then set the goblet down. She gave him a wide smile, her teeth stained purple, and said, "I like the uniform, though. Makes you look very manly." She reached a hand over the table, placing it atop Castorius'. "And _very_ handsome. Almost regally so."

"Mm hmm," Castorius muttered, drinking his wine.

Alva leaned in closer, and said in a half-whisper, "Maybe you could be my prince."

Castorius nearly spewed his wine on the woman—sent to coughing as the wine lost its sense of direction on its way down his tubes.

"You alright?" Alva asked, pulling back her hand.

"Oh sure, sure." croaked Castorius between hacking, beating at his chest. He took a long drink of water. "I'm fine."

Alva leaned back and studied him, half of her looking as enraptured as just a second ago, the other half with a dawning pensiveness. "You don't like the prospect, then?"

That was clearly an attempt for a set-up. Castorius would never fall for one of those. "But what of your husband?" he said. Guilt, that generally worked like a charm.

Seemed to be the right approach, too. "Oh, I know!" Alva started "It's just—", then looked away, chewing on her lower lip.

The age-difference between Alva and the husband in question _was_ quite steep. It did not exactly strike Castorius as a marriage based on love, or even passion. And those were some nice clothes that she liked to wear . . .

Alva turned her aggrieved eyes back to him. "It's just, he's away so much. And when he is back, well—I don't know if I quite know him anymore. He can be snappy and cranky, and . . ." she paused, "frankly quite mean."

"He _hit_ you?" Castorius felt a stab of anger. He was not the bravest, most noblest of men, but it took a special sort of coward to—

"No, no!" Alva hastened to say, "Nothing like that." She looked at Castorius with the most earnest look he'd seen on anyone for quite some time. "But while I normally fear each time he's away, fear he will not return, then on others . . . " She sighed and stared at the table. "Other times I wish that he would _not_." She slapped a hand over her mouth, like she'd let escape something she'd not meant to. Her large eyes widened to saucer-sized. "Oh, does it make me a monster to speak like this?" Her eyes on Castorius had the desperate clinging of someone about to drown

"No, no—of course not!" Castorius soothed. He'd laid eyes on monsters in his time, and none had come with beauty like Alva's. A certain bleak-skinned witch from Solitude popped to mind. "You're no monster. It's perfectly natural to feel that sometimes." Castorius, a bit at a loss, was definitely far from his own are of expertise. He wasn't sure if he'd chosen his words right.

They seemed to be enough for Alva, though, as she was smiling again. "Nice of you to say that," she said. The dread in her bearing seemed to vanish in thin air, and just like that she was back to normal.

A little something had changed, though: the adoring nature of the look she gave Castorius looked to have further intensified. Then she _was_ having her third goblet of wine . . . "You're always so nice to me," she said. "It's rare to meet someone like that."

_Uh oh._

Castorius finished up his goblet. This party seemed just about drawing to a close. Alva grabbed the flagon and proffered it towards Castorius. He lifted a fending hand. "No thanks, I've had plenty."

Alva, cocking a brow, said, "You've had half a goblet."

"That's plenty for me," replied Castorius.

Alva grunted softly, then refilled her own goblet, still halfway full. She took a long drink, giving Castorius an affectionate glance over the rim. Her smiling eyes were alight with entertained tenderness. "You're a silly man," she said, finally putting the goblet down, and gave a little giggle. She picked the goblet up again. Another gulp, and her smile was washed away. "But also a nice man."

_Uh oh!_

Suddenly this was not going too well. _A nice man_? In Castorius' mind, there was only a very limited number of uses for such a creature. Another species of spider sprung to mind—one in which the female was not content to simply eat the male after coupling, but would lay her eggs inside him. And, once the eggs hatched, the hundred little creepy-crawly spider-babies would then devour him.

Alive. From within.

A minor panic stirred inside him. He hastily finished up his water. Then he slammed his palms on the table, puffed his cheeks, and said, "I'm afraid I have to keep going, Alva," trying his best to play it cool, and not reveal how he was really feeling.

"Oh no!" Alva said, sounding alarmed. "Don't go yet!"

The look on her face only served to firm up Castorius' resolve. "I'm afraid I have no choice," he said. "I'm on a mission, you see." He started to rise.

Alva reached her hand over the table to grab his. Her fingers were soft, and Castorius' determination wavered a fraction. _Oh no you don't!_ But he thought he felt some hesitation radiating from the lower offices.

Alva, as if readily reading into this specter of apprehension, smiled. "You could stay just one night? You never have before . . ." Her lips puckered up to a feigned pout.

_Aha!_ Guilt. So obviously two could play at that game.

Luckily, Castorius was immune. Clearing his throat, he said, "Yes, I know. And I'd like to stay—I _really_ would. But perhaps some other time. See—"

Alva stopped him—at just the right time, too, for he had no idea what he was going to say—by pressing one of those soft fingers on his lips. "Hush," she whispered, and slowly started to slide down on her seat. She sank under the table, her lips gently parted and sporting a playful smile. Her head then disappeared from view.

"What—" Castorius frowned. Then he felt a tug. "Oh."

There was still some food left on the plate in front of him. He figured he might as well finish it, since the way it looked now he'd be sticking around just a little while longer. It was not too oft, after all, the two dominant forces of his life were getting their dues paid at the exact same time. He could count maybe only once or twice before.

He thought the whole situation was a bit like a snake devouring itself.

Or perhaps a dog chasing its own tail.

Castorius slowly chewed on his food, breathing very deeply. In and out, in and out. Alva was admittedly very good and minding her teeth. Castorius smiled between bites. Outside, a ray of sunlight was forcing its way through what had seemed like an impenetrable layer of mist.

Sure enough: despite everything, the day so far just kept getting better and better.


	8. Chapter 8: Lost Cause

**Chapter 8: Lost Cause**

"Gods-damned incompetent fool, " Castorius muttered. The sad fact was, though, that while he was certain of that particular assessment being right on the money, he didn't know whether it applied more to Falk Firebeard or to himself.

As it was, the spot marked "Stormcloak camp" on the map given to him by Firebeard told him that right at the moment he should be standing in the middle of the said encampment, having a pleasant conversation with old Ulfric himself. But instead, the briefest of consultations with the actual situation conveyed a sorry vision of a cold, wet, and deeply unhappy Imperial soldier, lost in the middle of shrubs, rocks, and evergreens—ankle-deep in sludge and slush, and rehashing the storage of available curses in his mental repositories.

In his other hand he held the reins of his horse, who showed absolutely no sign of caring one way or another about his concerns.

"That untrustworthy little motherf—"

Castorius' analysis was cut short, as he thought he heard a howling among the trees.

Just the wind.

_Oblivion can take the wind!_

If there was anything positive to be said, it was that his retreat from Alva's place had been a relatively painless one—despite the fervent attempts of the woman to hinder him, practically begging on her knees for him to find a way of staying the night. And though he generally held in contempt any notion of a person degrading themselves in front of _anyone_ else, he was hard pressed to deny that Alva's beseeching had touched favorably upon his somewhat dented sense of self-worth.

The only way for him to earn his retreat had ultimately been to promise his swift return, and that at that time he'd spend the night, or even several.

It now looked as though it would be completely impossible for him to return to that house again, and indeed he would have to stay as far away from Morthal as he possibly could. It was too bad, for he had really enjoyed Alva's cookery. Among other things.

But life, as they said, went on. Presumably, at least.

Having then put aside any thoughts of his possible demise looming in the near future, Castorius had been in quite a lighthearted mood upon arriving at The Pale. He'd even deviated from his usual ways and whistled a few notes, so much promise had the day thus far shown. Certainly it was a sign of some sort. His attitude had been correct, and he'd set up his intentions in such way that he'd come out of all this a winner. It looked obvious that the fates had great things reserved for a man of his abilities and ambitions. The world was malleable, and would only reward those who set themselves up for success, and would without fail recognize those worthy of its gifts and blessing. Man made, Castorius had been fairly sure, his own destiny.

Well, shit on that, it seemed!

He cursed again. All around him he saw nothing but woods—tree upon tree upon _stinking_ tree! Not the surroundings of _his_ making, to be sure. Certainly not the surroundings of his choice. And not at all how it was supposed to be! He'd turned off the path exactly where the map had indicated he should. He was as sure as he'd ever been of anything that this was the exact spot where the map claimed the Stormcloaks should be found. He was perhaps not the most soldierly of soldiers at the best of times, but he did pride himself on account of his impeccable sense of direction, and on his ability to find any place, no matter how strange the surroundings. If it had only been properly marked on a map accurately drawn.

So the fault was obviously Falk's, Castorius was sure of it. It had to be. The map was of the standard kind, so it was not like to be mistaken. That should have perhaps made him feel better, but it didn't. How was it possible the High King had for a second hand someone so utterly clueless about such a basic matter? Surely Ulfric stood a chance if this was the best kind of help Torygg had to go by.

Gods forbid if . . .

But no—it couldn't be. A cold stab of foreboding chilled Castorius' insides. Could this have been a set-up? Maybe the High King's—or maybe_ Ulfric's_—men were stalking him out here in the trees, just waiting for a clear shot so that they could cleanly and without witnesses take out the supposedly traitorous—

Castorius got distracted by his horse starting to whinny and rear besides him, and had a hard time just to keep control on the reins. "Hold on, you behoofed half-wit!" he scolded the beast. It would have none of it, but instead pulled back so violently Castorius had to let go of the bridle, lest the leather cut into the flesh of his bare hand. The animal reared, almost kicking him in the head, then dashed out, disappearing behind the trees.

"Go on then, you bastard!" Castorius yelled after it.

He had to bury his face in his hands. What made matters worse was that, even though it'd only been an hour from his last meal, his stomach seemed to once again be growling.

"This is not happening," he muttered.

"_Grrrrrll!_" The stomach replied.

"Oh, just be—"_ Now, wait just one minute. _Castorius' hands dropped. That had _not_ been his stomach. The growl had come from behind him, and unless it was his arse making it, well then...

"_GRRRRRRrrrrllll!"_

Castorius swallowed and, very slowly, turned around. And, as he did, he found himself face-to-muzzle with a pack of three hungry—and quite formidable—looking wolves. They stood in an arrow formation, heads bent down like they were ready to spring at him at any moment. They were obviously sizing him up, and—apparently judging him to be just-about bite-sized—kept flashing their canines at him, giving out what looked like rehearsal bites of the air.

"Umm," said Castorius slowly, "That's a good doggy, now," with something like diplomatic calm.

Needless to say he did not feel calm in the least.

With that, the wolf at the lead barked at him, causing him to flinch. "Alright, alright! Not a doggy, then. I take it back, I take it back!"

Castorius took a couple steps back, which was all he could until his back hit a tree. Damn this forest, why'd it have to be so full of them!

Against his better judgment, he attempted to reason with the beasts. "Let's take it easy now," he said. "You don't want to do this, as you will find I don't taste—"

The leader of the pack jumped at him, and Castorius squealed like a little girl.

There was a swooshing sound and a sort of dull thud, and the wolf hit him hard, knocking the air out of him and toppling him to the ground.

"Off of me, off!" Castorius screamed in a somewhat less than butch fashion, trying his damnedest to keep those deadly fangs away from his jugular.

It would seem, however, that the beast had no such ambitions left, for out of its skull jutted a feather-fetched wooden shaft. The arrow had clearly killed the wolf before it had hit him, for its face was frozen in a hateful assailant snarl.

The remaining two wolves—a touch inconvenienced by the surprising demise of their leader as they clearly were—still very much seemed to have Castorius on their agenda. They kept advancing with predatory wariness, teeth bared. He fumbled about his belt to unsheathe his standard-issue Imperial sword. So far the only sort of action the sword had seen was Castorius flamboyantly showing off the very impressive, but similarly very useless, fencing-forms from his training to some or other member of the opposite-sex. Those were the only kind of opponents he'd ever truly plunged any sort of fighting weapon into.

His hands suddenly uncooperative, he could not for the life of him unfasten the clasp keeping the sword in its scabbard. The wolves, as if noting their chance had come, chose that moment to make their attack.

Another arrow hummed through the air and found its target in the other wolf's neck. The animal whelped and jumped in the air. Taking a couple wobbly steps, it collapsed on the ground, taking its final deep breaths as blood rapidly seeped onto its gray pelt.

The remaining wolf could no longer afford to discount this new airborne nuisance. It still had its hungry yellow eyes on Castorius, but shifted about nervously, aware that a threat had emerged somewhere on its flanks.

Another shaft flitted by right above the beast's head, drawing an aggravated bark out of it. Yet another hit a stone right next to its right paw. That one finally did the trick, for after a brief moment of reassessing its situation, the animal turned on its paw and started running in the opposite direction.

It was, however, too late for the retreating canine, as its escape was cut short by a group of assailants. It was three men, dressed in brown armor, topped by turquoise capes. "Skyrim for the Nords!" one of them yelled.

_Not for the wolves, I take it then_, Castorius thought. He didn't feel at all inclined to argue with that at the moment.

The wolf met with its destiny in the form of a Stormcloak sword, cutting its head clean off with a swift, powerful blow dealt by the largest fellow in the group.

After this last of the beasts had been take care of, the Stormcloaks directed their attention to Castorius still sitting on the ground, the arse of his skirts now uncomfortably wet. It only occurred to him at that particular moment how cold his bare legs had gotten in this climate.

He scampered back to his feet as the Stormcloak soldiers approached him. Two of the three wore face-covering masks, but the one who did not might as well have for all the emotion his thoroughly stony face did not show. Suddenly Castorius felt very immediately the Imperial colors on his attire, like he was dressed as lamb-chop at a costume party of carnivores.

Now glad he'd not had time to as much as loosen the sword on his scabbard, he spread his arms in a gesture he hoped conveyed simultaneous non-aggression and gratitude. "Boy, am I glad to see you!" he cried, and rarely before had he felt lie and truth mix as evenly. "You came just in time, too." He offered a greeting hand to the stone-face type at the lead. "I owe you my—"

The Stormcloak's "hello" came in a form of a gauntleted fist cutting Castorius square in the jaw. He was sent back onto his rear.

Castorius shook his head, ears ringing and stars flashing in his eyes. "Now what—"

He got his eyes open in time to see a boot on it way, directed right at his face.

And that was all he saw before everything went black.


	9. Chapter 9: Ever the Charmer

**Chapter 9: Ever the Charmer**

If the contest between the two factions had come down to the quality of weaving in the ropes they used, the score would have been just about even. Both of them had proven themselves quite disagreeable around Castorius' wrists. Perhaps that was the whole idea?

His jaw was still sore where the Stormcloak brute had landed his blow, and he had a headache from taking a boot to the head. His requests for a healing potion had been met with mute scorn, as on the whole his presentation to the camp had fallen somewhat short of warm embrace. Despite his vehement assurance that he was not a spy, there appeared to be no second opinion on the matter that he was precisely that. "If I were a spy," he'd tried. "do you think I'd be as stupid as to dress up like this and come walking openly in your turf?"

Yes indeed, _would _he? They seemed to largely agree that he would. The only thing Castorius hated more than people holding a low opinion of him was when they were correct to do so.

"We'll let Ulfric decide what to do with you, once he arrives," they'd said. And by the looks on their faces, they had a pretty clear idea of what exactly that would be. Doubtless nothing Castorius himself would enjoy too much.

That last bit hardly needed adding.

Castorius worried he might be left with an ugly bruise, a scar even. Growing up, he'd never entertained the idea of being particularly pretty, but then at some point started to hear that from people—admiringly from women, with disdain from men—and slowly had started to believe it himself. Sooner than he'd realized, then, it had become a genuine concern of his that something might happen to diminish the agreeable nature of his visage. At points he'd even wondered if his appearance might be his one redeeming quality, without which it would be revealed what a reprehensible toad he truly was.

The prospect was chilling, and one he'd learned to sweep aside with steadfast resoluteness. So that's what he did now, too.

He was sitting on a wolf pelt—so _something_ good came out of the foul beasts—inside one of the tents at the camp, hands tied behind his back and ankles together. And to make sure he would not swiftly and surreptitiously _hobble_ away out of the middle of a military camp swarming with Stormcloaks, they'd also left behind a guard. He should have felt flattered. _Flattened_ was more like it.

It had to be said, however, that the one thing in which the Stormcloaks one-upped the Imperials was their selection of sentry. A blond woman of stern yet alluring features stood besides a brazier, warming her hands in the orange glow. A tuft of wheat-blond hair stuck out from under her iron helmet, and, under a furrowed brow, blue eyes stared at the sizzling coals like they were part of some tough-to-break riddle she was just on the brink of solving. She had her face sideways to Castorius, offering him a good view of her nose. It was prominent and slightly hooked at the tip, the kind Castorius—being from Cyrodiil, the native land of handsome beaks—had a strange weakness for.

The woman took no notice of him staring at her.

Castorius cleared his throat to get the woman's attention, but to no avail. He tried again, slightly louder this time, saying, "So, lovely weather we're having."

Not the winning commencement, perhaps.

And, true enough, the woman simply kept staring at the brazier. But the cheek-muscles did clench a trifle under her pale skin.

"Though, I don't suppose it, uh, changes much around here."

The tick of expanding metal, the faint hiss of the coals. Other than that, silence. Castorius drew breath to say something else, playing his role entirely by ear.

"Do not speak to me!" the woman snapped, still not deigning to look at him. Castorius' line, what ever it might had been, died on his lips.

He did not, of course, take the first setback for a defeat. Pretending she'd never said anything at all, he continued, "You seem very confident. Like you really know what you're doing."

Women, they liked compliments as much as any man, he knew.

Perhaps not this one, though. If anything, her passivity looked to take on even more antipathy than before. She said nothing, nor did she look at him. But her breathing sounded angry, and her expression was the night sky shrouded by rain-clouds.

Castorius hadn't been lying, he realized. The woman _did_ seem to know exactly what she was doing, and he did not much like it. A cold shoulder was not what he'd been used to from women, especially from young ones. Perhaps at times from some of the older, less attractive ones, but that was inconsequential as he'd never wanted anything from them anyway.

So perhaps a slightly different approach was required. "You _may_ have to interrogate me a bit, you know," he said.

Nothing.

Castorius sighed, and leaned back against a tent-pole. "Well," he said, "any time the mood takes you. I'll be here."

He did his best not to ponder too closely on the exact significance of "here."_ Yes, sure!_ he though sourly._ Ulfric's set up some sort of makeshift military camp at The Pale, your sources say? And he will be coming there himself, the man who knows me and, for all we know, will likely take me as the most poorly-disguised attempt to spy on him anybody anywhere with half a wit—_if indeed _that_ much_—has ever tried? Of course I'll go throw myself at his feet! What could _possibly_ go wrong!_

He'd escaped death at least once today—possibly twice when you added the wolves—but did not know how far he could count on his good fortune. Not to mention his earlier confidence in the guiding hand of providence, or whatever in the names of the eight Divines it had been.

If a man's fate really did lie in his own hands, Castorius' seemed to have its head resting uncomfortably heavily on the goodwill of others. Was he rapidly becoming what he'd always most despised?

Revolted by the thought, he heaved himself into a forward-leaning position, trying to sweet-talk the lovely if uppity lass some more. "You know, I really think you and I—"

"What?" The woman's head snapped in his direction. Her voice was cold and sharp, enough to cause him to flinch. "What could you _possibly_ have to say that would be of any interest to me?"

Castorius had to admit that was a tough one to reply to.

That did not keep him from trying, however. "Well, I think you and I probably have a number of things in common." _Yeah, like what?_

The woman sneered at him like at a jar of moldy peach jam. "Yeah," she said, "_like what?_"

"Um," Castorius head was rattling empty. "Well, there's the—"

The woman suddenly sprang up and darted towards him. Castorius inadvertently tried to back up when he saw she now had a knife in her hand. Not a small one, either.

The Stormcloak squatted in front of him, waving the blade in his face. "What?" she demanded. "There's the what?"

Nothing came out of Castorius' mouth, but he was only glad nothing came out of any other end, either.

The woman's smile was a bitter one. "And d'you know what _I_ think?" she said. "Hmm?"

Castorius tried to smirk back, a pitiful attempt. "I would very much like to know," he croaked.

The woman's smile melted away. "Oh, I very much doubt that."

Castorius found a little bit of his earlier composure, as the knife's blade was still dangling in the air instead of removing anything dangling of his. Perhaps he also managed to salvage a bit of his dignity, thought certainly not by much. "Please, indulge me," he said, and didn't squeak it either, contrary to what he himself might have anticipated.

"I think, " the woman said, pressing the tip of the knife to his cheekbone, "that you're nothing but a self-serving dog. A piece of scum who would sell his own mother just to get ahead."

Castorius had a hard time not airing out his surprise. This girl had talent, it had to be admitted. He tried to think of a reply but just swallowed. Air, mostly.

"_And_ the most gods-awful spy I've _ever_ heard of," the woman went on.

_Aha!_ While she'd been pretty much spot on in her initial assessment, Castorius was unable to argue with her. But this later one gave him an opening, as he was _technically_ not a spy. After all, what sort of spy was it who was _meant_ to cause suspicion? "I'll have disagree with you there," he said—barely getting anything out, his throat being so parched.

The Stormcloak frowned. "The dog part or the spy part?"

Castorius paused. How much could he say without giving away anything crucial? What was it even exactly that he shouldn't reveal? Complicated business, lying. "Could I get a drink, by any chance?" he inquired.

The woman raised a brow, as if he'd just asked her for a kiss. She reached behind her, however, produced a canteen, pulled the stopper out and poured some cold water in Castorius' mouth.

Drinking, he looked the woman straight in the eye. She was still all frown and scorn, but Castorius thought he might have spotted a dawning breach in her defenses. It almost felt as if they had a little moment there.

The woman then pulled away the canteen, causing Castorius to dribble on his chin and clothes. He drew water into his lungs and coughed.

So much for the moment.

"Speak," the woman said, as impatient as ever. Though she did keep her knife out of his face this time around.

Recovered, Castorius tried to smile, more or less even managed to. "So, you decided to take me up on the offer, then?"

His guard slapped him across the face. A solid blow, too. Good technique.

Castorius, cheek burning, decided to not yield. "I confess, I confess," he said in a shrill voice.

The woman was not amused. Castorius flinched, waiting for another whack.

It did not come. The woman simply sighed, starting to rise. "Why am I wasting my time?"

"I'm not a spy!" Castorius blurted. Supposedly it was the right thing to say, as it was the exactly the thing he was going to tell Ulfric, too. After all, this woman was still probably much less likely to have him hanged. Supposedly.

The Stormcloak's look was one of utter disbelief, but at least she'd stopped retreating.

"It's true," Castorius said. "They were going to execute me, the Imperials. But I ran—I _escaped_! And now I want to join the rebellion." He gave the woman his best earnest puppy-dog look. "I'm on your side!"

The woman raised a brow, examining Castorius. "So you're telling me you left the Empire, just to join our cause?"

Castorius nodded eagerly. I he could convince her, certainly Ulfric wouldn't be much harder.

"Do you know how many times," she said. "I've heard that before?" Something about her clearly had started to soften.

"No."

The woman shook her head sharply. "Not one single _Talos-damned_ time!" The cold frigidity of her baring was back with a vengeance. "After all, why would you highfalutin, hoity-toity Imperial dog-buggerers, with your heads buried so deep up your own arses you're practically on the verge of implosion, care half a shit for the political status of Skyrim?" Her eyes with their dagger-sharp glare took on the hue of utter-contempt blue. "Why would you trade your cozy bunks and your regular warm meals and your legionary circle-wankeries for the discomforts and hardships taken up by those who are actually still fighting for something worthwhile? You know, something bigger than yourselves? And I don't mean your thick, over-blown skulls!"

Castorius tried for a second to arrange his words into a compelling argument, then realized it was no use, and tried, "The girls here are prettier?"

Who was to say it wasn't a lie?

The woman scoffed, and turned around. "What a waste!"

"Wait!" Castorius said. "I'm sorry!"

The woman stopped but did not turn.

"I, uh... I," _Don't think, just let it come._ "I apologize." _Good, good_. "I'm just new to this, is all."

The woman turned, hesitant.

_That's it, come to daddy!_

Castorius rehashed the earnest puppy-eyes. "And I'm not quite used to women of your . . . caliber." _Careful, now! You don't want her to think you're calling her large_. "What I mean is..." _What, what,_ _What?_

Then it suddenly came to him, and he smiled freely. "The Cyrodiilian women, they are just so _weak_! Then I come here, up North, and lay my eyes on you ladies . . ." He nodded appreciatively. "So strong! I instantly fell in love! And to think—" his certainty faltered a touch, but he pressed on, assumed a solemn expression. "—to think of this proud people, suppressed under such a corrupt, mongrel of an Empire—the thought of it crushing underneath it the pure, rugged spirit of this land . . ." He shook his head. "I simply could not bring myself to live with the thought."

_A bow, big round of applause!_

Either that, or a swing of a big old axe.

It helped, Castorius had found, a lie when one injected the untruth with a healthy dose of his own genuine feelings. The Empire _was _a weak-minded mongrel, he entertained no doubts about that. But then he also knew it was the exact same way most Nords tended to see things.

The expression on the woman's face was all but indecipherable. For what it was worth, at least it did not strike Castorius as outright dismissive. "So, what you're saying—" she said, her voice softer now. She walked back to him, kneeling down. "—what you're saying is that in a way it was _love_ that changed your mind? Your new-found love for our simple, honest, hard-working people?"

_Well, perhaps not the _people_, exactly,_ Castorius thought. He nodded and said "Yes!" his voice a whisper.

The woman's eyes went wide. She blinked. "Well, that's . . ." she looked down for a second, then back to Castorius. In her gaze genuine delight teemed with warm endearment. "That's . . ." Her eyes hardened anew, and, fast as a viper, she grabbed Castorius' face in a firm hold—surprisingly strong. "That's _by far_ the single biggest, stinkiest load of mammoth-shit I have _ever_ heard coming out of _anybody's_ mouth!" She was speaking, or growling, between clenched teeth. "And, believe me: I've had a fair share come my way!" The look in her eyes now was just about fierce enough to set a weaker man aflame.

Castorius felt rather hot himself. "It's true!" he tried to say, though his cheeks being pinched together by the woman's iron grip reduced his words to nothing but some spittle with vowels in it.

The woman said nothing, just stared at him hard with those hateful eyes. Castorius was overtaken by an acute inability to think of anything redeeming to say.

Right then, somebody peaked their head through the tent door.

His face still in the woman's hold, Castorius' eyes flicked to a chubby flat-faced man with placid and beady brown eyes, who, upon having taken in the scene, broke into a jovial smirk.

"Kirsten," the man said. Even his voice sounded pudgy. "Hate to interrupt you, as I can see you're, er, having a moment here."

The woman—Kirsten, apparently—did not let go, nor release Castorius from her wrathful stare. "What is it, Hans?"

"Well," said Hans. "Nothing much, I suppose. Just, it seems as though Ulfric has arrived."

Castorius suddenly felt like a fox with its leg caught in a trap. Again. He raised his brows to Kirsten. She held him a moment longer, than let out a contemptuous scoff and pushed his face back, letting go. She wiped her hand on her trousers, scrunching up her nose, and rose.

Hans pointed at Castorius. "Bring the spy."

"The spy" no longer felt the inclination to argue.

Kristen used her knife to cut the rope around Castorius' ankles. She lifted him up easily, much stronger than she looked, then pushed him towards the door.

"You two are about to be real embarrassed." Castorius said with feigned self-confidence, voice not even breaking too much.

Hans slapped him in the back of his head. "Shut up, you!"

Castorius bit back a reply he did not have, and took a deep breath as he was led outside to meet his fate.

_Here we go, then. Moment of truth._


	10. Chapter 10: Storm under the Cloak

**Chapter 10: Storm under the Cloak**

As he was—rather rudely—shoved ahead towards Ulfric Stormcloak just dismounting his palfrey, Castorius' sense of worry gained momentum. The leader of the rebellion did not look like he was having a good day, and it was starting to look like the alleged spy soon wouldn't be either.

The sun beamed down with blinding brightness, still high up but already falling towards the west. The air had turned crisp and dry, and despite a fresh gust of wind there was a profuse smell of sweat hovering about.

The Stormcloak camp wasn't much larger than Torygg's throne room had been: a collection of six tents made of hides scattered in the midst of evergreens, a smithy to the side, a fireplace around the middle with a cooking spit and a skinned skeever carcass skewered on it, next to it a boiling pot of meager looking stew. Perhaps all together a score of Stormcloaks were positioned here and there, looking more soldierly than Castorius might have expected based on his earlier observations. This Hans fellow being the one possible exception.

Ulfric barked some orders to a pair of soldiers, who saluted and scurried away in haste. For all intents and purposes, it appeared as if the Stormcloaks were already preparing for war.

Hans waddled to his disgruntled leader, muttered something in his ear while gesturing towards Castorius. Stormcloak's frown gained a couple of extra furrows as his eyes met with the prisoner's. He nodded, and waved a hand. Hans promptly retreated. Or as promptly as was possible for him.

Castorius swallowed. Ulfric Stormcloak was not the kind of man whose habitus called one to lie to his face. He gave you a sense that he would never himself be dishonest with you—and that he would likely beat you to death with your own severed arms if he caught _you_ being dishonest with _him_.

_An honest man, _Castorius thought with disdain. He'd known a few of those. Lying bastards every single one of them.

Ulfric had proud features in his unassuming man-of-the-people sort of way. A strong, prominent nose under slanted gray eyes. The eyes had a slight natural droop to them, and this gave them a certain air of sadness. That impression was further amplified by the world-weary quality in their gaze, which Castorius took for practiced. After all, the man was just barely into his early thirties—how much could there really be to be wary of? Or perhaps the look owed its origin to whatever had left those deep scars in the man's red-bearded cheek.

The most remarkable feature of Ulfric's eyes, though, was the way they gave you the acute sense of a sharp mind working behind them. There was that discerning watchfulness in the man's stare, like he without exception noticed and took note of everything you might do your damnedest to hide from him. Castorius supposed that was an actual feature of the man, and would indeed be hard to fake—though he also suspected Ulfric had a way of over-emphasizing it for dramatic effect. Either way, that look was the most prominent thing in the man making him seem so dangerous. That, and his calm, which appeared to hide behind it a highly tempestuous nature you wanted to do your best not to provoke.

Perhaps that's why they called him Stormcloak in the first place—because the man you saw on the outside hid away the storm within.

Or perhaps that was just silly.

As Ulfric approached him, Castorius—both his head and his heart pounding now—tried to hastily line up the back-story in his head. The details felt utterly lost to him, and the more he tried to fish for them, the worse they got dispersed. The stern look on the rebel-leader's face served to dispel all logical though from the head, leaving but the instinct to survive.

But instinct alone was not enough. It simply told him to run or fight, and neither of those was an option. Why had he ever agreed to this? He shoved back the all too obvious answer.

Ulfric stopped right in front of him and, to Castorius' shock and surprise, smiled. And it was not the predatory sort of smile, either, but one of warm camaraderie. He even went as far as to lay a large hand on Castorius' shoulder, drawing from him an involuntary flinch.

Castorius studied the shorter man's relaxed features in a state of outright confusion.

"My friend, am I glad to see you!" Ulfric said.

"You . . . are?"

"Yes, of course! How went your mission with Torygg?"

"I . . . " looking about, Castorius' was not the only confounded frown. He caught a glimpse of Kristen, whose jaw hung open a little. That gave him the boost he needed. "It, um, went very well!" he said.

"I'll say!" Ulfric laughed. "Hear you avoided the famed Axe of Ahtar, you did!" He patted on Castorius' shoulder with a heavier hand than seemed necessary.

"I was not aware it was that famous," replied Castorius.

"Well, not yet," Ulfric said, wrapping his arm around Castorius' neck. "Not yet. But I've a feeling it will be." He only then noticed the ropes still around his new pal's wrists. "Someone get these off of him!" he snapped, startling Castorius. "I will not have my important ally treated like a common criminal."

_My _what_ sort of _what_, now?_

A Stormcloak swiftly came to fulfill his commander's order. Castorius, for all of his stupefied bewilderment, took the chance to shoot a triumphant glance at Kristin standing at the sidelines. She frowned back.

Castorius thus released, Ulfric prompted his supposed new ally to walk with him, a hand on his shoulder. When they were more or less out of earshot of the main group, Ulfric, still smiling, said under his breath, "What did you tell them?"

Castorius looked at the man, confused. "Nothing," he said. "Nothing. Just that I'm not an Imperial spy."

"And?" Ulfric demanded.

_What does he want to hear?_ "And, well, that I escaped their execution and came here to join your cause?"

Ulfric nodded his head, satisfied at what he'd heard. "Good, so you didn't muck-up too bad."

"Sir?" The military mode of speech came mostly as an instinct.

Ulfric stopped to regard Castorius. His expression was somewhat sterner now, though there still wasn't any visible trace of anger in it. Most importantly, the man did not seem intent on commencing an execution of his own. At least at this very instant. "Listen to me: I want you to stick to that story, and only that. Don't go improvising any more. Is that clear?"

Lost for words, Castorius nodded.

Ulfric continued walking. "Good."

Castorius walked after Ulfric—who more or less appeared to be going in circles—while curious, and admittedly somewhat displeased, pairs of eyes all around the camp followed them.

After a moment of silence, Castorius said, "I must confess I'm a little confused."

"Hmm," replied Stormcloak absentmindedly.

"I mean, do you not believe me when I say I'm here to join you?" It seemed a particularly stupid question to be asking directly.

Without breaking stride or making eye-contact, Ulfric replied, "Does it matter?"

"Sir?"

Ulfric came to a halt. He looked Castorius up and down, taking his number as if he were just another piece of equipment. "Isn't it obvious?"

"Um," Castorius hesitated. This was one of those moments to not appear too thick. Nor too clever. "No. . ."

Ulfric smiled as if to a child. "You, my friend, are an ass—" his head abruptly snapped to the side, like something caught the corner of his eye.

An _ass_?

Ulfric turned his head back. "An asset, Castorius."

_Ah._ "How, sir?"

Ulfric's frown returned. "Are you playing with me?" he asked. Before Castorius could get a reply out of his opened mouth, he went on, "A man of your position—with your knowledge of the imperial army?" He laughed. "Why, we'd _kill for _a chance to get inside your head!"

Castorius couldn't help to swallow. "Uh huh."

Ulfric's hand was back on Castorius' shoulder, and he ushered him to walk on. "There really is no time to go over the fine details right now. I'm not planning an open move against the illicit Imperial rule for the better part of a year at least. So we can take our time."

So he _was_ planning to turn this into an actual war. Torygg would be pleased to find out. Or perhaps he'd be furious. What was his policy with messengers?

Maybe he already knew?

Ulfric and Castorius had walked back to where they had started their aimless rounds. Everyone was where they'd left them, mostly standing around, waiting to be told what to do. Kirsten, sitting down for some grub, was eyeing Castorius with a furrowed brow, while clearly pretending not to. When Castorius caught her eye and smiled, she spat into the fire, then looked away.

Castorius sighed.

"Soldier!" Ulfric snapped.

Castorius jumped. To his mild surprise, Ulfric's eyes were on him. Instinctively, he assumed attention.

Stormcloak nodded approvingly. "Pay attention! We may consist mostly of regular people, but we are still running an army here!"

Driven by yet another instinct, Castorius made the Imperial salutation, flinching instantly afterwards.

Ulfric merely smiled at him. "We still need to get you used to the new command, but I'm confident you will become an integral part of this regiment."

What could you say to that? "Thank you, sir!"

Ulfric's military rigidity melted away, and he thumped Castorius' shoulder like an old buddy might. "We're all glad to have you here."

The quickest of surveys around the camp revealed that was indeed not the case. Castorius considered pointing this out, thought better of it, said, "I'm glad to hear that, sir," even flashing an obsequious little smile.

"Gunder!" Ulfric bellowed, and Castorius started once more. He would really have to stop doing that.

From out of nowhere sprung a soldier so upright, and so tight of form it looked like he might pop a vein at any second. "Sir!" he barked.

"See to that, ah, _Corporal _Castorius here is sufficiently briefed about his first assignment.

_Corporal._ Promoted so quickly! Corporal Castorius—he had to admit liking the clang of it.

"And . . . " there was a flicker of uncertainty on the young soldier's otherwise supremely composed countenance, "what would that be, sir."

"Why," Ulfric grinned shrewdly, "Operation Crimson Tusk, of course."

What was _that? _Surely nothing good.

The overzealous young man's heels snapped together. "Yes sir!"

"And prepare the man his horse. I believe I caught a sight of it grazing behind the rocks there." Ulfric's eyes went to Castorius' attire, and his nose crunched up a nearly imperceptible degree. "And won't you find him some proper gear. He cannot be walking around in his _spy _outfit, now can he."

Ulfric gave Castorius a wink, but it was difficult to decipher the intention behind it. Castorius felt uncomfortably much like being played for a fool.

"Dismissed!" Ulfric announced, waving his hand.

Now it was Gunder's turn to be shoving at Castorius, this time towards the tent where the paraphernalia was kept. As he took a quick glance back, Castorius could see Ulfric looking after them. The Stormcloak leader assumed an encouragingly assuring expression the second he caught his eye.

But what had that been in his eyes just a second before? Suspicion? Connivance?

Was Castorius simply being paranoid?

"We are glad to have you by our side," the young man said, interrupting his musings.

Castorius raised a brow. "Really?"

"Oh yes!" the lad's nod was a bit too ready and his face somewhat too earnest for him to be simply toying with Castorius. It was admittedly a good feeling to finally have someone unconditionally and without reservations welcoming him to this potentially—and in action quite concretely—hostile environment.

"Thank you," Castorius said.

"Yes, indeed!" enthused Gunder "It's an undeniably good thing to have a trained Imperial soldier at the forefront once the actual fighting will start!"

Castorius felt the infant of a smile on his face slide off, plop to the ground, and diffuse into the mud. "Oh."

"I'm sure you have lots of tricks up your sleeve to help us defeat those Imperial bastards." Gunder's eyes positively gleamed.

"Yes, sure," Castorius muttered.

Why not.


	11. Chapter 11: Jack of All Traitors

**Chapter 11: Jack of All Traitors**

Essentially, wearing Stormcloak armor wasn't too different from wearing the Imperial kind, except for one important feature: it sure as _Oblivion_ was a lot warmer. This made sense, of course, but it struck Castorius that he'd not before thought to question the Empire's refusal to upgrade their attire into something more suitable for the northern climate. And so far he'd been in the habit of questioning them all.

Almost certainly this was due to their very Cyrodiilian mulish stubbornness, and their standard wrongheaded demand for uniformity. But whatever it was, it was yet another call on their part Castorius did not hesitate to call absolutely idiotic.

That list just kept getting longer and longer.

Now, his legs nice and warm under the pair of leather trousers, he though back to those couple winters he'd served here so far, suffering though the frigid winds and the biting frost. Each spring, he couldn't have given enough praise to whatever incompetent fools ruled the universe, once the sun started to offer some actual warmth instead of just sitting up there in the sky like some painted-on decoy—mocking the folks down below fooled into thinking that the thing might have served any sort of purpose besides just hanging pointlessly in the firmament.

Yes, he could have certainly used these things earlier.

As warm as he might have physically been, though, a chilling sense of uncertainly gnawed at his guts. How could this possibly end well? He was not trusted by either of the factions whose trust he was supposed to gain, and he didn't even know which one it was he was ultimately supposed to betray.

It was hard enough trying to keep up on who wanted him dead more badly.

That, in itself, wouldn't have even been all that bad, if he'd only had some clear idea of why they wanted him dead to begin with. If Torygg didn't really think Castorius a traitor, and if he didn't actually know about him and Elisif, then why send him into the lion's den? Castorius had not for a second bought the whole "spy for the Empire" story, and since the High King had himself admitted to not believing that Ulfric would be fooled by his purported conversion, what other reason to order him here if not to be taken out by the Stormcloaks?

And, on the other hand, if the original purpose was simply to have Castorius killed, why bother interrupting the execution? None of it added up.

It wasn't any better with Ulfric. For all his chumminess and jovial good cheer, Castorius knew now—after having had some time to reflect—that there had been a clear subtext to his conviviality. The fine print in Stormcloak's deceptively warm acceptance of Castorius into his army was loud and clear: you will not breathe my air for long. There had not been any briefing as to the nature of the "mission" he'd been sent on, but it was bound to be something nasty. Castorius half expected to be attacked at any moment, maybe take an arrow from nowhere—just like those wolves had.

And yet: if they wanted him dead, why save him from them in the first place?

Frustrated by the circular nature of his mind—unable not only to find satisfactory answers, but confused about the questions themselves—Castorius scratched his head under the loose-fitting Stormcloak helmet. The heads of these northern mooks being so gods-damned large, they'd not had anything in their stores to comfortably fit around his own sophisticatedly-shaped skull. And there'd been no question of them even considering Castorius' perfectly sensible request to simply wear his old helmet. It would scarcely be the first thing to mark him somewhat different from your average pale and light-eyed Nord. With his olive skin and hazel eyes, nobody would in a million years take him for a legitimate Stormcloak.

An Imperial fighting for the freedom of Skyrim? Surely nobody had heard of anything _that_ unlikely. And, as Castorius had been taught, when it came to war, odds were pretty much everything.

His behind sat uncomfortably on the saddle, and it seemed to be only through great pains his horse tolerated him on its back. It kept shifting and snorting discontentedly, shaking his mane every other second, as if it could not itself believe what a demeaning load it had been forced to carry—and felt no qualms about showing its distaste, either. Clearly its opinion of Castorius had been lowered since the last time.

He was was some twenty strides outside of the encampment, waiting there to rendezvous with the contact who was to take him on this first mission of his. He supposed he would probably not meet his assassin just yet, but was still not looking forward to this person, whoever it was. He'd generally experienced enough scorn for one day's needs, and that particular art was apparently the Stormcloaks' second nature. Little wonder, of course, for they had much less reason to love the Empire than Castorius did—and his own storage was more or less raided to its masonry.

But how to explain _that_ to these hard-faced, butter-wasting, swill-swigging, manner-challenged mountain bumpkins?

As fate might have it, at the precise moment he was thinking about what he'd give to see a friendly face, a familiar voice came from behind him. "Well, well," it said. "You can thank your lucky stars Torygg didn't want to defile his nice chopping-block with your no-good, cowardly, and—apparently—treacherous blood."

Castorius did not need to turn around to know who it was, but he couldn't stop his eyes from bulging out of their sockets upon registering the sight of Roggvir riding his horse beside him. The Nord was wearing the exact same Stormcloak armor as him, and on top that a grin so smug it could be used as an exemplary piece at the Academy of Arrogant Pricks.

"Roggie!" Castorius cried. "What in the—" His brain was waging a war against itself in the face of the incongruity, while the smirk on the lips of his old comrade-in-arms was getting ever wider. Castorius gestured at the man's gray armor. "How?"

Roggie's eyes twinkled with mirth. "You think you're the only one can pose for what they're not?"

"And that would be . . . ?"

Tilting back his head back, the man bellowed a laugh. "You mean, am I a Nord posing for an Imperial, or an Imperial posing for a Nord?" His grin had a devious edge to it. "I guess the same question could be asked of you, my friend."

"I honestly have no idea what's going on anymore," said Castorius.

Roggie jerked his head. "Let's move. We'll see if I can clear some of those clouds out of your sky, eh?"

"_You're_ the one supposed to take me on this 'mission'?" Castorius asked, spurring his horse after his friend. The animal moved reluctantly.

"That's me," Roggie said.

"And you—" Castorius took a quick look around, lowered his voice,"you're another one of Torygg's spies?"

With a shrewd sideways look, and doing nothing to appear surreptitious, Roggie replied, "Or am I originally one of Ulfric's spies? You're the clever one, you tell me."

Castorius did not feel the least bit clever right now. "Don't mess with me, Rog. I'm confused enough as it is."

Roggie let out another laugh. "I beg to differ. I'm confident there are myriads of layers of confusion I'd be able to pile on top of you—and with increasing levels of amusement, too."

It had ever been Roggie's pleasure to pick on Castorius, and that had clearly not changed over the past few weeks. How could someone not all that smart himself make a man feel so stupid? It was a rare gift, to be sure.

Castorius responded like he always did, simply stared at the man with tired resignation.

"Alright, alright," Roggie finally conceded. "As usual, you make it too easy for me."

Castorius shrugged. "Never claimed to be a difficult man."

"And that's exactly what I like about you!"

Castorius frowned at the smirking man, trying to detect a slight, couldn't, and gave up. "So?"

Roggie in turn looked around, before replying, "I do work for Torygg, in a sense."

"In a sense?"

"Well, in the same sense I work for Ulfric."

"That doesn't make it any clearer."

Smirk. "The bottom line is: I work for me."

Now that was something Castorius could understand, could easily relate to. Though it was hardly the thing he'd ever expected to come out of this man's mouth. While never showing the same sort of vehement loyalty and zeal that Captain Aldis did, Roggie had always struck Castorius as a genuinely loyal guard with not much more ambition than to do his work right, and maybe get on Castorius' nerves in the process. But an opportunist like himself?

"You look surprised," Roggie said.

"Me? No! Well, yeah, alright. A little."

Roggie laughed. "And they say you can't bullshit a bullshitter!"

"And who would this bull in question be?"

"Bulls, my friend, are abundant upon this land. It is simply a question of who is man enough to grab the horns."

Castorius frowned. "This analogy just stopped making sense."

"Sense! That's your problem. You always want everything to make sense."

"I'm not entirely sure that's a fair—"

"You fancy yourself something of hustler, don't you Castor?"

He thought about it for a while. "Well, I've had my moments."

Roggie snorted. "_Amateur_, is what you are!"

As far as Castorius was concerned, that may just have been the most insulting thing he'd heard that day, and that was saying something.

Before he could reprimand the Nord, however, the man went on, "But stick with me and you will find out exactly what you can achieve if you keep your eye out for the price."

"Stick with you? Thought we were running an errand for Ulfric."

"We are," replied Roggie. "We most certainly are. But let this be your first lesson. A man can easily be in two places at once while standing in the same place."

"Is _that_ supposed to make sense?"

Based on his self-satisfied expression, to Roggie, apparently, it did. "Take me for instance," he said. "Where do I stand? Torygg thinks I'm his boy, Ulfric thinks I'm his boy . . ."

"And let me guess," Castorius said tiredly, "you're nobody's boy?" Was this blowhard really the same person he thought he'd known for this entire time in Skyrim?

Roggie wagged his finger at him. "See—clever." The smirk on his face was slowly making Castorius want to punch it. "I knew you would understand, though."

"So . . . you're somehow playing Torygg and Ulfric against each other? Manipulating them to, what, ignite an actual war?"

Roggvir blew out air dismissively. "As if!" He shook his head, like it was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard. "How do you imagine_ that _would work?"

"I don't know. Thought you were supposed to be the superior hustler here all of a sudden. You've certainly played me for a fool all this time."

Roggvir narrowed his eyes, still smirking. "Do I detect jealousy?"

"No," Castorius said curtly. "Not from me."

Uh, huh," said Roggie. "Whatever you say." He twisted his head to the side and cracked his neck. "Anyway, a war is the last thing we'll be seeing around here. Mark my words."

"That's not what I gather from Ulfric himself."

Roggie's eyes betrayed nothing but amusement. "Is that so?"

"Well, he told _me_ he was probably planning to make a move by the end of the year." Not exactly the truth, but Castorius was itching to rub it in the man's face that apparently Ulfric had trusted Castorius with some information Roggie himself had not been let in on.

But the Nord simply snorted. "If you need any more proof that Ulfric does not trust you for shit, there you have it." As Castorius frowned at him, he elaborated, "Ulfric never tells anyone what he plans to do next. Everybody knows that." He gave a somewhat condescending look. "Well, anyone who knows things, anyway."

"Seems evident the man is planning _something_, by the way he's gearing up, setting up camps and the like."

"Or," Roggie stretched the word, "he may just be testing Torygg. Provoking him to see how he'll respond."

Castorius shook his head. "I think _you're_ testing _me_."

"Only like a smith tests his steel, my friend."

Castorius' fist was really itching to make contact with those teeth.

"Well, I already feel heated up and pounded at," he said, "I take it the cold water comes next?"

Roggie laughed. "You may be more right than you know."

"Are you going to tell me what you're doing here?"

"It is as you might expect," Roggie said. "Torygg sent me here to spy on Ulfric, who in turn is of the belief that I'm spying _for_ him. Though, I have to admit, personally I'm not at all sure what either of them really think of me."

Torygg was known to keep a careful eye on Ulfric, despite the apparent leeway he'd given him. That had been why he'd sent Castorius to Windhelm in the first place. It made sense, then, that Ulfric should also have his own spies.

But if Torygg thought Roggie was already doing his work in the Pale, why send Castorius? "What am _I_ doing here, then?" he asked.

"Beats me," said Roggie, shrugging.

Castorius' frowned. "What? Surely you know!"

"I swear I don't." He looked genuinely apologetic. "I knew you were supposed to be keeping an eye on Ulfric at Windhelm, and must admit was dumbstruck when they had you arrested. I didn't take you for the corrupt type." The irony of that statement did not escape Castorius, but apparently did the Nord. "So I tried my damnedest to fish out the information as to your incarceration but couldn't get anything out of anyone. People around Solitude can be quite tight-lipped when need be. So I just waited."

"You could have tried freeing me," said Castorius, though it sounded childish to even his own ears.

Roggie rolled his eyes. "Yes, _of course_ I could have. Fought the guard with my bare hands. Maybe fly you to safety at the top of the Throat of the World on the back of a Dragon."

"You could have put out a good word," Castorius muttered.

"Stop being childish," Roggie said. At least he'd stopped smirking now. "The bottom line is: I knew they were not really going to take your head. After all, would scarcely make any sense to execute you for treason."

"What makes you say that?"

"First of all, there's no pretext for it. Nobody's ever been executed on account of any sort of treason that had not at least something to do with somebody losing their life." He hawked and spat in the shrubs. "And second, if Torygg doesn't go after Ulfric, allows him to uphold a personal army, and otherwise pretty much lets him act freely, then why take the head of someone who was merely _dealing_ with the man?"

"A warning?" Castorius tried.

Roggie wasn't listening. "At first I couldn't figure out why they bothered to make such a show of it. But then I realized it was probably just part of Torygg's double tactic to make the citizens loyal to the Empire feel he was doing something, and at the same time scare those who thought of lending a hand to Ulfric."

"That's what I was—"

"_Then_, upon having a supposedly casual conversation with Aldis, I was finally able to coax it from him that Torygg was planning to send you here." Roggie shook his head, and gave a little laugh. "Oh, Aldis. So manipulable underneath all that hard posturing."

"He didn't tell you why Torygg sent me here?" Castorius asked.

"Nope. But I was quick on my feet. Before they brought you to him, I approached the High King and suggested—pretending not to know anything about your case—that I return to Ulfric for a supposed 'report'. Torygg seemed to suspect nothing, and concurred. Then I rode to Ulfric to let them know you were in all likeliness coming to 'join' him."

"So _that's_ how Ulfric knew!"

Roggie's smirk had returned. "Well, how else?"

Castorius narrowed his eyes. "You _told_ him I was sent by Torygg?"

Roggie's astonishment seemed too spontaneous to be fake, but then who could tell? "I wouldn't do that!" he exclaimed. "Why would I want to get you in trouble?"

Castorius made no reply, but studied his supposed friend with suspicious eyes.

Roggie shook his head disapprovingly, but his smirk had not been entirely extinguished. "I told him next to nothing. Just that you were coming, that I did not know why, but that you had somehow managed to escape and wanted to join the rebellion."

"You told him that? How did you know that was my cover story."

"I didn't! I guessed!" The man's expression was more than a little self-satisfied.

"What else did you say?"

Roggie shrugged. "Nothing much. That I knew you, and could vouch for you. That you might prove useful." He paused, arching his brows at Castorius. "And here you are."

"Useful, how?" Castorius asked, frowning.

"Oh, I fed him a story about you being well connected in the military. Knew about tactics used, strategic points, all that. I explained that this was the reason you could have promised to supply him with Imperial weaponry, too." He cast a knowing, mischievous look at Castorius. "That's what you did, didn't you?"

How did he know that? Castorius did not like this one bit, but there was no use denying it, either. He didn't look Roggie in the eye, just nodded.

Roggie gave a dirty cackle. "Oh, you little weasel! How did you imagine you would pull that one off?"

Truth was, he hadn't. Promises were easy to make, especially when offered good payment in return. Sometimes that was all you needed to do: to have the right intention and the will, and the rest would fall into place on its own.

Other times, well, it didn't.

Eager to change the subject, Castorius said, "So Ulfric doesn't know I'm supposed to spy on him." That, at least, felt like something of a relief.

"I have an idea he might," said Roggie.

"What?"

Roggie shrugged. "He's a pretty clever man, that Stormcloak. I would not sell him short."

"But you said—"

"I said I fed him the story, not that he swallowed it. Could well be he didn't."

Castorius sighed. "Well that's just great!" He shot Roggie a sharp look. "So what good are you?"

"Relax. It's not so simple. If Ulfric knows, it is likely he knows you know, too."

"Huh?"

"And probably that you know that _he_ knows that you know. And that _you_ know that Torygg knows, and that Torygg also knows that Ulfric knows. And that Torygg knows, and that you know, and that you all know that you all know that you all know . . . " Roggie smiled. "You know?"

Castorius shook his head. "No."

Roggie simply rode ahead, as if judging the matter dealt with.

Castorius rubbed his brow. "I have to say all this crisscrossing espionage is really messing with my head."

"You'll get used to it."

"I doubt it."

He was too tired to press the issue any further. He looked at the sky, some individual clouds starting to gather. The wind was blowing cold, and bit Castorius' cheeks uncomfortably. This, supposedly, was summer at The Pale. They were headed North, but where exactly, Castorius didn't know.

"So where are we going?"

Roggie did not turn to look. "We're on a mission to win Ulfric a fleet."

"A what?"

Roggie gave a sidelong glance. "A fleet. You know, a bunch of ships. Made of wood, sails and all that. Move like a charm on water."

"Yes, thank you, " Castorius said. "What does Ulfric want with a fleet?"

"Hmm, I wonder. What could he ever?"

Castorius replied with a stare.

"Well," Roggie then said. "the Empire's got all the ships they need provided for them by the East Empire Trading Company. Ulfric has, what, a shipping boat and an elderly captain with a peg leg? You do the math."

"You only need a fleet if you plan to go to war," Castorius pointed out.

"You got that right."

"Thought you said Ulfric was not going to go to war."

"I did."

"And you're how sure of this?"

"I'm not_ un_sure about it."

"Uh huh."

"Look," Roggie said, turning to look Castorius with an expression like a patient father talking to a yammering child, "it's one thing to plan to be going to war, and another to look like you are. You follow?"

"I guess."

"And Ulfric wants nothing more than to give out the impression that he means business."

"Seems that way."

"You see, he's desperate to assemble a convincing enough military force. He believes that to achieve this completely, he'll need ships. He quite rightly fears the Company's warships, and is desperate to get a countering force for them. Desperate enough, that is, that's he's willing to go to some shady types for it." Roggie grinned. "And this is where we step in."

"We're the shady types?"

Roggie laughed. "Oh no! You're about to meet some people that make you and I look like Aldis in comparison."

The prospect did not sound good in Castorius' ears. He pushed the matter aside. "But, " he began, deciding not to care that even to his own ears he was starting to sound like an argumentative child, "I still don't quite buy it. There's no way Ulfric will be able to intimidate the most powerful military force in Tamriel."

Roggie's face took on an incredulously amused expression.

Castorius frowned. "What?"

"Are you truly that gullible? Don't tell me you've bought into that whole ridiculous self-congratulatory, chest thumping nonsense the Empire spews." When Castorius replied with a nonplussed stare, Roggie rolled his eyes and laughed. "But of course you would have. After all, most do."

Castorius did not feel good being lumped up with "most". "What are you talking about?"

Roggie stared at him for a second. "The Empire's all but broke, Castor. They're running lower and lower on funding for their military, they owe both their arms and legs to private industries they depend on—such as the Trading Company . . . "

"The Company? But I thought—"

"Yes, you thought so," said Roggie impatiently. "You and everybody else. But no, the Company is not funded by the Emperor. If anything, nowadays it's the other way around."

"Wow."

"You said it. Not to mention the Thalmor pressuring him from left and right, imposing their demands like this idiotic ban on the worship of Talos for example. It's really only a matter of time until the Dominion will decide to make their move. Let me tell you, the next Great War will be end of this particular empire and a beginning of a new one. And that one, my friend, will make us yearn for these times. I can tell you that much."

Castorius felt a nauseating cold in the pit of his stomach. "So, what you're saying—"

"What I'm saying is that Ulfric has the right idea. What the Thalmor fear is that the Imperial provinces will one by one declare independence, and then together challenge the Aldmeri Dominion. They need the Empire weak but united. That's why they see Ulfric as such a threat. They would have gotten him out of the picture long before were it not for Torygg."

"Torygg?"

"Yes!" Roggie laughed. "Would you believe it? It's like he has a soft spot for Ulfric, I swear. And to tell you the truth, those two may end up needing each other more than they would ever think. More than anyone would. Personally I would not be surprised if Ulfric ultimately ended up convincing Torygg to declare independence."

"Really? And you base this on personal observation?"

Roggie shrugged. "Among other things."

"Wow."

Castorius had to take it all in for a while. He'd of course known of the uncomfortable relationship between the Dominion and the Empire, but had had no idea the Empire was truly doing so badly. On the other hand, how could he be sure of Roggie's assessment? He didn't really feel like he could be sure of much anything at the moment.

The whole thing felt uncomfortably much like a gamble.

He sighed. Above them, the wind was rapidly rounding up the clouds like a herd of dirty sheep. Castorius hoped they would be getting indoors before it started to rain. In his mind, though, he was fairly sure he'd wind up getting soaked.

One way or another.


	12. Chapter 12: Beyond the Bale

**Chapter 12: Beyond the Bale**

The sky shrouded in a layer of dark cloud, Castorius felt the first drops of cold water on his face. The wind was also picking up, blowing in from the ocean, carrying that tell-tale signature of salt and fish that always reminded him of what resided between a woman's legs.

In its way the association brought him some comfort, but was unfortunately not enough to dispel the gathering shadows from his mind. Step by step he became more convinced this would not end well, and that strengthening odor might as well have been the scent of his own approaching doom.

He felt like an idiot to have gotten himself into this mess, and scarcely felt heartened by the fact that the man in his company was likely an idiot also.

Castorius gave a scornful glance at Roggie riding abreast him. The air of confidence the man was putting out, that arrogant little smirk on him—they reminded Castorius of someone he knew.  
><em><br>Oh gods! _he thought._ Is that how people see _me_?_

Roggie's grin widened then, his eyes still fixed in the distance. "Well, well. Look at those sorry bastards!"

About a fifty strides ahead, a somewhat miserable looking bunch of people huddled together against the ever rising wind. Four men dressed in town guard sat on horseback, protecting at the middle of them a man in a heavy, long overcoat.

As they approached the company, Castorius could hear the man in the middle heaping curses and scolds on top of the surrounding men, who took the words with calm composure bespeaking chastisement. Castorius recognized the expression on their faces, was in fact very familiar with it. Likely these were some hardened pairs of ears; used to it all and skillful in tuning out the actual content of the words, mindful only of the moment when they would stop pouring out.

It generally took quite a while.

Around the coast, trees were few and far between, and with the mountains left behind the wind had a free rein. Castorius looked into the near distance, could hear the ocean roaring and the seagulls screaming, but could not get a good visual due to the thick wall of mist that seemed to have come from nowhere.

The people did not notice Castorius and Roggie approaching. Close up, the man in the middle appeared to be an older fellow. "And wipe that smirk off you face!" he was crowing at one of the guards.

"Yes sir!" the guard replied, tight-lipped.

"Hey!" Roggie called, waving a hand. The man's scowling face snapped towards them.

The sight of them approaching did not seem to improve the man's mood. If anything the furrows of his already corrugated brow deepened further. He came across as one of those men with a perpetual expression like they were chewing on something sour, whose permanently displeased eyes never failed to find out each and every fault in what ever they saw. The thin-lipped tight line of a mouth—surrounded by a profuse stubble up to his cheekbones, making him look as if he'd been down on his knees, eating the dirt off the ground—was undoubtedly equally eager to make known the exact rotten nature of the details his eyes picked up.

A turquoise and silver circlet adorned the man's brow but did little to improve the visuals. In fact, it only served to further underline the utter misery of the visage underneath it.

The man scratched at his shaved head, its scalp equally shadowed by stubble, as he disapprovingly studied the newcomers. He chewed at the insides of his mouth, lips twisted as if he was doing his darnedest to keep from bursting into tears.

"Skald, my friend," Roggie said. "Always nice to see your sunny disposition!"

"You," the man, Skald, sneered. "He sent _you_?"

Roggie grinned. "Who else?"

"Absolutely anyone else, I prayed. Should have known, of course."

"Yeah, well. I _am _well versed in this kind of thing."

Skald scoffed. "Yes, who better to deal with crooks than another crook."

Roggie's levity would not be dented. "You said it. Get along with you plenty good, don't I."

Another scoff. "And who's this?" Skald gestured at Castorius, but would not deign to look at him.

"Fresh blood. Another trooper for the cause."

The old man's eyes flicked to Castorius; just long enough to be thoroughly unimpressed. "And can you vouch for him?"

Roggie snorted. "I can't vouch for _you_. But I've a pretty solid feeling we are going to need this fellow if we're to make this deal."

Skald gave Castorius a longer look now, though evidently it pained him to do so. "You got a name?"

"Cas—"

"Numskull. Got it." The old grump turned his attention to his men. "Alright, you nitwits. Let's get this over with, I got better things to do still today." Castorius did not find that to be too likely, whatever it was that they were about to do now.

Numskull_?_

As they started toward the shore, Castorius and Roggie fell a few steps behind.

"I don't like him," Castorius muttered.

Roggie let out a dry laugh, more like a cough. "No surprises there," he said. "Nobody likes him. I doubt _he_ likes him."

"Who is he?"

Roggie looked surprised. "You don't know Skald the Elder, the Jarl of The Pale?"

"I don't follow politics."

"Oh, you should," said Roggie, "'cause what ever you do, it will follow you."

"If you say so."

Roggie gave him a long, sober look. "I'm going to have to teach you a thing or two, if you're to survive what's coming."

Castorius looked back. "What's coming, then?"

Roggie shrugged. "I don't know. But it's something big, I can feel it. And I'm not talking about just the potential Dominion invasion. Something else."

"Uh huh."

"Oh, you can scoff and ridicule," Roggie said, though Castorius had zero interest in doing either, "but mark my words: things are about to take a different turn. It may happen sooner, it may happen later, but the world you and I know?" He waved into nowhere. "It's going bye-bye."

"Not sure if I should be fearful or excited," said Castorius, even if it was a factitious reply on his part.

No matter how he might have felt about the general order of the world, it was one he was firmly rooted in. Change, almost any change, did not strike him as a desirable prospect in the least.

Only then did it strike him as odd that a Jarl of one of the holds was taking part in this. Did it mean he was openly supporting Ulfric? Surely not, for if anything, _that _would be tantamount to treason.

But if one of the Jarls was having talks with the man, well, what would stop the others? Despite Roggie's convincing, it was seeming more and more like Ulfric wasn't just blustering, but planning on open rebellion.

Icy water had started to whip their faces, small and sharp drops blown horizontally by the wind, as they came to a stop at the waterfront. The Sea of Ghosts was looking exactly as its name suggested— an eerie white veil hovering above the water, allowing for very poor visibility. Approximately a hundred yards' distance off the shore, the outline of a ship, a hull and a sail, could be discerned. A splashing came from a closer proximity, and Castorius squinted at the foggy water to spy a smaller vessel headed towards them.

Roggie, with his confident as to be arrogant smirk, unmounted his horse. Castorius did the same, as did the men of Skald's guard. The old man himself stared into the sea with his hands on his hips, frowning, as if the water itself failed to meet his standards. He stole a quick glance at Roggie, and Castorius could read a hint of worry in his expression. What was he wary of?

_I don't know,_ Castorius thought. _But it's not making me feel any better, that's for sure. _He took a look at his old comrade-in-arms, whose aspect gave no sign of unease. In fact, the way Roggie smiled into the mist, one might have supposed it was a dear old friend he was expecting to see.

There were voices coming from the boat, mixing with the splashing of the oars in the water, the squeak of the oarlocks. There was a harrowing, gruff one dealing sharp words, accompanied by two quieter, obsequious ones. Perhaps it was Skald's long lost twin brother coming; that would go a long way explaining the man's visible vexation.

Castorius could hear the growl of horkers from somewhere behind him. He'd seen a pack of them lying around the rocky shore, and would have welcomed the strange animals' fat, tusked presence over his present company.

The rowboat beached, keel scratching at gravel. A short, skinny man hopped nimbly to the shore, and pulled the vessel in the rest of the way—surprisingly easily for his meager build. A slurred, ill-tempered mutter in a language Castorius did not recognize came from a dark-clad figure at the back of the boat, responded to by the gentler voice of another man in front of him—speaking the same language, but in a way that rang somewhat more familiar.

The small man did not wait for the others, but surveyed the welcoming committee with evident amusement. He was dressed in just a loincloth and leather gauntlets, but didn't appear to suffer from the chilly weather. Despite his slight frame, he was well-muscled.

After taking a brief survey of the posse in front of him, the man's eyes locked on Roggie. "Greetings! I take it this is the delegation sent by Ulfric Stormcloak." The man's surprisingly elegant mode of speech, delivered in a measured baritone, had a feel of playful irony.

"Indeed it is," replied Roggie, mimicking the man. "Welcome to the Pale, good sir."

The man eyed Roggie for a few seconds, then laughed. "Always nice to see you, Roggvir." he said, sticking out his hand.

"Likewise, Joric," replied Roggie. They grabbed each other by the forearm, like some kind of secret handshake.

"Wait, you two know each other?" Skald cut in, sounding as undelighted by the revelation as one might have expected.

Joric eyed the old curmudgeon with the amusement that came across as his permanent disposition. "And who is this?"

"This," said Roggie, gesturing towards Skald. "is Jarl—"

"Cardamom!" An angry voice interrupted. Or at least that's how the word sounded to Castorius.

"Oh, terribly sorry," Joric said, and reached back to offer a hand to the man stumbling out of the boat. The hand was swatted aside, accompanied by a sharp word that was more than likely a curse.

Joric turned back towards the so-called delegation, smiling. "Allow me to introduce you: Captain Mala—"

"Malaney!" The man himself barked, this time in more or less plain common tongue, and stepped up, pushing Joric aside. He straightened himself, a fairly tall man, and gave everyone there a sweeping look, which Castorius couldn't have characterized as anything but the most arrogant, high handed glare he's seen anyone ever give anyone before. And that wasn't just saying something. It was saying a lot.

The man was an impressive sight in his way. Shorter than Castorius but still tall, broad shoulders and an imposing bearing now that he stood straight. Long and tangled black hair, thickly braided, hung about his shoulders. The delicate elvish features of the Breton were still visible underneath the thickly bearded and threadbare face that had doubtless seen its rounds of scuffles and long nights—and likely days—spent with the bottle. His eyes were of a very dark brown, like a pair of black pearls shining from deep within the sockets, curtained by vaguely slanted lids.

When those eyes met with Castorius'—no matter how briefly—he felt a strange sensation, like something was slightly _off_. An ambivalent and hard-to-grasp feeling about the Captain that rendered him somewhat . . . unnatural, for lack of a better word.

"Captain Malaney," the man finished introducing, inclined his head a touch. "And who may I have the honor of speaking with?" Similarly as his earlier drunken demeanor had given way to a much more composed form, his voice also had softened from the harsh growl to a softer one—though there was certainly still a sharp edge to it. His politeness seemed the impatient sort.

Before Roggie had a chance to say anything, Jarl Skald, visibly disheartened by all these people acting like they were better than him, stepped in front of the odd seafarer. "My name is Jarl Skald the Elder," he proclaimed. "The Jarl of the Pale." He even smiled—an unsightly apparition. "Welcome to the Pale, Captain."

The silly welcoming had obviously not been intended as anything but an attempted reminder of whose turf they were on.

Malaney gave the surrounding the briefest of glances. "Yes, very lovely." He in turned gave the elderly man a wide, toothy grin. If Skald's likeness of a smile had been appalling at best, the Captain's expression was as becoming as the open maw of a shark just about to devour you. And not least because half of his teeth were black. "Where I come from we call this _wasteland_," he said. Somehow it came out exactly like a threat would.

Even the hard-bitten Jarl looked taken aback. He appeared to have a hard time replying.

Luckily, it seemed the captain was not waiting for a reply. "So," he said, spreading his arms. "I assume we were not summoned here simply for the beautiful landscape, eh?"

"No, Captain," Roggie started. "You see—"

"_We are here_," Skald cut in. He seemed determined to not be swept aside or intimidated, all the while coming across as somewhat sidelined—and positively frightened, "because Ulfric Stormcloak needs ships."

_Well, that there about confirms it. _How could Roggie possibly claim that Ulfric was not planning on open warfare, if he was persuading the Jarls to join in his cause? Castorius gave Roggie his best attempt at an inquisitive glare, but the man replied with nothing but the stupid simper sitting tight on his face. He then looked at Skald, who was doing his best to keep up the haughty air that had clearly suffered from the presence of the imposing—and likely unpredictable—Captain. Skald did not strike him as a man too easily convinced. What incentive could Ulfric have waved in front of his puckered face?

Captain Malaney studied Skald with his black eyes narrowed. A little contemplative smile played at the corner of his cracked lips. "That so, huh?" he muttered, more to himself than anything.

The Jarl, unsure whether or not he'd just been asked a question, simply nodded.

"Ah!" the captain then exclaimed, causing everyone to jump. "A man need ships to fight a war, does he not?" He looked around triumphantly, as if looking for confirmation for his brilliant and novel insight.

"Well," Skald said cautiously, "let's not get ahead of ourselves, shall we?"

The Captain frowned. "No?" he asked, a shadow creeping into his voice. "You find fault in my reasoning?"

"Well, no," hastened the Jarl. "Of course not. But one needs ships regardless if one is actually planning a war or not." He was clearly searching for the most diplomatic order for his words. "You know, if one is to have a credible military force." His sentence ended in a somewhat questioning intonation. He did not appear to be much of a negotiator.

"And what's in it for you?" Malaney asked. "What are you, a 'Jarl', is it? What's that even mean?" He gestured at the bare landscape, rain flitting down and wind tearing at haphazard patches of long grass. "You govern this particular shit-pile?"

Skald answered by swallowing so loud no doubt everybody present could hear it. He was not doing too well with this.

"Gentlemen, if I may," Castorius heard his own voice say. _Shut up!_

_Too late._ He now had everybody's rapt attention, including the still frowning captain. Castorius swallowed, more quietly, he hoped, then Skald had. He took a step up.

In the corner of his eye he picked up Roggie's widening grin. _I'll deal with you later._

"I believe what Jarl Skald is attempting to say," he started, improvising like he apparently now was in a habit of doing, "is that not before a man has his forces in order, can he begin to assess whether or not he should actually use them." At least he managed to keep his voice level this far. More than could be said for Skald.

"And who are you, then?" A couple of the furrows in the captain's frown were clearly inspired by genuine curiosity.

"Nobody," the Jarl started. "He's just—" The sharply lifted hand of Captain Malaney shut him up.

"My name," Castorius said, his unruly heart beating any which way it felt like, "Is Janus Castorius." He held a pause. "Janus to my friends." And though saying that had greatly pained him, he smiled his best snake-charmer's smile.

Malaney replied with a knowing little smirk. "A pleasure," he said. "_Castorius_."

Castorius fumbled for a way to progress.

Gladly he did not need to, for Captain Malaney waved his hand dismissively. "Ah, enough pissing around!" he barked. "I was just bothering this fellow a little." He gave the Jarl a playful little jab that was clearly painful. He then fixed his gaze on the old man who managed to regain his balance, but not any of the little dignity he'd had. "I know precisely what you want."

"You do?" asked Skald, surprised.

"Of course! What, you fancy yourself special?"

"Well—"

The Captain did not listen. "No, you're not special. You want what every other man under these unforgiving heavens wants. I trust I don't need to spell it out for ya?"

The Jarl made one last attempt to gather his composure. "I want justice?"

The Captain's grin widened to reveal those blackened teeth again. "Oh?"

"Yes," Skald replied, and before he could be interrupted again, pressed on with the last wind of his self-assuredness. "The Imperial rule has run its course. And while I admit some obvious advantages have come from their reign, it has simply started to take more than it gives."

"For example?"

The Jarl cleared his throat. "I'm sure the matters of our province are of little interest to men such as yourself," He paused, as if to see if his words had caused the captain any offense. The had not appeared to. "But there are some things that are hard to overlook—matters too important for the people."

"You're testing my patience. Get to the point."

"The worship of Talos," said Skald. He was sounding less intimidated now, and even something like inspired. "The Empire would not have had to ban it; they went too far accepting that particular clause in the White-Gold Concordat. They should have fought the Aldmeri Dominion in that one. That they didn't says it more plainly then anything: they will always put the peace with the Dominion over the interest of their own people."

It was a pet-peeve of the Aldmeri Dominion, ever playing the most pure-of-faith people in existence, that men believed the Emperor Tiber Septim to have become a god. Another thing to rub them the wrong way was that humans had dared to raise one of their own into their precious pantheon. The Dominion had proclaimed it blasphemy, the idea that a mere mortal should be ascended to such a divine position.

Obviously the fact that it was Septim himself who had originally snatched the power over Tamriel from underneath the High Elves' upturned noses, had its part to play in the supposed religious outrage.

In any case, it remained one of the most controversial parts of the peace-treaty that the worship of Talos had been deemed a crime all across Tamriel. Especially here in the north, where many were deeply embittered about it—many still continuing to worship him in secret. By chance, that had given the haughty High Elves a good excuse to impose their power on the regular folk, arresting them based on flimsy accusations, and taking them into custody—most never to be seen again.

One ruled not best by legitimacy and popular opinion. One ruled best by fear.

"Makes sense to me," Captain Malaney said, as to offer confirmation to Castorius' thoughts, "those creepy, wax-skinned, yellow-eyed gangly freaks are not to be trifled with."

Skald almost looked slighted. "Well, it has certainly become evident the Empire is not able to handle them."

"So, Ulfric's going to throw the Empire out of Skyrim?"

The Captain's grin made it obvious he did not see that a viable option.

"I did not say that," replied Skald. "But one will find himself in a much better position to negotiate his point of view when one has the sufficient steel and iron to back up his word."

"Indeed." Malaney scratched his dirty hair. "Still don't answer my question, though."

"I beg your pardon?"

"What's in it for _you_?"

"I explained to you—"

"No." The captain gave his head a sharp shake. "That ain't it."

Skald stared at Malaney, nonplussed.

"What you want is a chance to improve on your own situation," Malaney said patiently.

"Perhaps . . . " It was increasingly starting to sound like a negotiation.

"What you want is to get out of The Bale."

"The Pale," Skald corrected.

"What ever."

Skald did not appear to entirely to agree. "Well, I'm—"

"Do not argue with me," Malaney pressed on. "You know I'm right, and it's nothing to be ashamed of. It's perfectly natural. I mean, feel free to correct me if I'm wrong, but we are all men who push against the boundaries given to us."

He waited for a while for someone to contradict him. Nobody did, so he went on. "There is absolutely nothing wrong with trying to better oneself. Nothing wrong with trying to reach—" He swept his hand over the view of the mountains in the distance. "—_beyond!_"

The last word was a dramatic half-whisper.

Something in the Jarl's eyes lit up at that, though he was clearly struggling to keep up his unimpressed exterior.

Captain Malaney clearly picked that up too, for his normally self-pleased grin took on even more swag.

At that moment, it finally came to Castorius as well. How had he not seen it? This man, Skald, was not so different from himself, after all. He simply sought to improve on his own position, to increase the advantages at his disposal.

Castorius looked at the man a little differently now. Less with contempt, and more with, if not solidarity exactly, then at least some strain of compassion. Or perhaps pity was the word. Likely his ambitions were, if not precisely the same, then at least similar to Castorius'. He clearly did not have the prestige he felt he deserved, and the years for him were only getting shorter.

Furthermore, Castorius could appreciate the risk the man was taking. If any news of his involvement with Ulfric's plot leaked to Torygg, he _would_ suffer the consequences. Perhaps that was why he was so distrustful. Because, at that point, even if he'd managed to keep his life, what little position he could be said to retain in life would be permanently stripped off him.

He'd have nothing left but his own aging body.

A shudder ran through Castorius. What would be the point of living for a man who could not even lure young women into his bed? How would he himself take it? Of course, he would still have the pleasures of the palate, but thinking along those lines was akin to consoling a man with a strong disposition toward running, and who subsequently had come to lose one of his legs, by reminding him of the fact that the other one was still perfectly functional.

Well, close enough, anyway.

Of course, Castorius did not know whether the Jarl's ambitions went along the same lines as his own, but he'd known enough people of power to make an educated guess.

Captain Malaney caught both Skald and Castorius in the embrace of his long arms. His smell left a lot to be desired "The limits of your world are only as narrow as the limits of your mind," he told them.

The eyes of the two men met, and it became clear Skald's opinion of Castorius had not improved any. His contemptuous scowl was an old-man version of sticking out his tongue. Some folks you just could not please.

"So," said Roggie, smiling at the awkward sight of the two men in the erratic sea-captain's enfold. "We're all friends here, right?"

"Do you have my help, you mean to ask, " replied the Captain.

Roggie, his hands up as if surrendering, said, "I would never sell short a man of your caliber. You've yet to name your demands."

"My demands, huh?" Malaney gave a little chuckle. He let go of the two men, laid a hand on Roggie's shoulder with the wolfish grin still intact. "I am a man of simple needs, myself."

Roggie nodded. "Of course." Even he appeared a touch nervous now.

"So, do we have a deal?" asked Skald. It was as if he hadn't been listening at all.

The Captain seemed to take no offense. He looked at the old man. "The Blood Horkers will come to Ulfric's aid."

It was hard going for Castorius to keep his jaw from dropping. _But of course!_ The Blood Horkers! Pirates—who else could you hope to buy for a purpose like this.

But . . . _pirates_? Had Ulfric truly lost his mind? Castorius understood if the man was desperate, but were ships really _that _important?

"However," Malaney added. "it is as golden-boy here declares. Negotiations are not quite done."

"Well, but—" Skald tried.

"No, no!" Malaney stopped the Jarl with an uplifted hand. "It's mostly a formality at this point. You, my friend, can go on back to your shi—, er, estate, and we will finish this up. "

"I'll have none of it—"

"Do you really think," Malaney said calmly. "that you want to get entangled in the details? A public official as you are?"

Skald though about it for a second. "These gentlemen have my full trust."

"Good. Smart man."

"I have your word then? Ulfric will have his fleet?"

Malaney lifted his hand anew. "My word of honor."

_Surely that's worth all the gold in Tamriel, _thought Castorius.

Skald nodded. "Good enough for me." Probably it was, too. He then gave Roggie behind the Captain a significant look. "The Commodore will likely not be pleased."

"That will be taken care of," Roggie said, nonchalant.

Castorius though it best to overlook that one for the time being.

"Alright, then." Skald patted his thighs. Let his eyes wander around the people again, in as haughty a manner as he could muster. There was that scowl again, as he got to Castorius. _What does he have against me?_

The Jarl then snapped at his men, who immediately sprung onto their horses. They surrounded their leader, and the posse started walking off.

Once the Jarl was out of earshot, Malaney puffed up his cheeks. "Finally! I was _this_ close to putting my sword through the buffoon."

The span between the index finger and the thumb of his uplifted hand was not a large one.

"Unfortunately, though," said Roggie, "he's a necessary evil."

Malaney cocked a brow. "How is he necessary?"

"Like it or not, even in the future the world will need public officials."

Malaney hawked up phlegm, and spat on the ground between them.

Roggie gave a dry laugh. "My thoughts exactly."

"What's this about a 'commodore'?" asked Joric from behind them.

"We'll get to that later," Roggie replied.

"That being said," said the Captain, rubbing his hands together for the cold, "shall we get a bit more comfortable for the remainder of these . . 'negotiations'?" He gestured towards the ship sitting in the mist. "Why don't we board the Brinehammer, and we'll talk more over some food and mead, huh?"

That did not strike Castorius as a particularly appealing prospect. Unfortunately, though, his mind was leaving him hanging once more, and he could not for the life of him come up with a sufficient declination.

To add insult to injury, Roggie smiled like the Emperor himself had just invited him for a banquet, and perhaps thrown in an offer of a personal back rub. "Sounds good!" he beamed. "Doesn't it, Castor?"

Damned bastard knew exactly how Castorius felt about it, as was plain to see by his grin.

"Oh, sure," Castorius replied. "Sounds excellent." He eyed the dinky rowboat with distaste. Water was one of those elements he did not particularly care for.

"It's settled then!" said Malaney, grinning like he was about to have them _for _dinner rather than over for one. That was just about how it felt to Castorius, too, as they stepped into the boat. They barely fit in it, all of them.

_I'm going to get you for this, Roggie, _he thought as they left the shore._ This I _swear.


	13. Chapter 13: At Captain's Table

**Chapter 13: At Captain's Table**

It almost wasn't half bad.

Contrary to what Castorius might have expected, the rest of Captain Malaney's crew did not appear to be quite as uncouth and repulsive as the man himself. This was not the first run-in Castorius had had with members of the Blood Horkers, and he'd long ago come to understand that just because a man was a pirate, it didn't mean he was necessarily rotten through. A little rotten, most likely, but then Castorius was yet to meet a man who did not more or less fit that description.

However, the overall character of the people on board the Brinehammer mattered less. The crew might just as well have been every bit as off-putting as their captain, right down to the last man. It still wouldn't have dimmed any of the glory of their finest feature: their food was excellent!

Castorius was eagerly sucking at his fingers for the remnants of the pepper-and-honey sauce that went with the roasted quail. It had been a good while since he had last gotten to eat that particular savory dish, as the bird did not live this far north. These individuals in question had come all the way from southern Cyrodiil, and had been preserved in salt-barrels. Raiding ships from all across Tamriel was apparently good for more than simply gold.

In addition, there were many courses of more familiar foods: beef—which came roasted, spiced, as well as stewed—mammoth steaks in mammoth-cheese, venison—roasted and in a stew—many different cheeses, grilled vegetables, fresh garlic bread . . . Castorius could not even taste them all before his stomach started to object. It wasn't looking likely he was going to make it to the desserts.

And not only had he been left to eat in peace without being hassled by any attempted conversation, he was also quite pleased that, unlike he'd expected, nobody commented on him skipping the swilling of mead everyone else was hard at. Neither had he gotten any second glances when he'd instead chosen for his beverage a jug of milk that stood on the table, and which everybody else was passing by. Why was it even there in the first place? Whatever the reason, Castorius was happy to drink it, and even happier not to get any of the heckling he usually had to tolerate when he did that.

"Milk-drinker!" they liked to mock, the Nords. It was really quite rich coming from a bunch of butter-gobblers!

Castorius saw Captain Malaney staring at him from across the long trestle table, smirking. He replied with a courteous little simper, hoping the other man would simply continue to leave him be.

No such luck. The Captain leaned forwards, raised his voice over the general chatter. "So, Castorius," he said, "enjoying our humble cuisine, I see." The man's loud voice, dripping with some venomous kind of irony, silenced the commotion. To his displeasure, Castorius found all the pairs of eyes around the table directed at him. _Careful, now,_ he though.

When the man had said "humble" he had obviously not intended his words to be taken at face value.

Castorius took care to finish up his chewing and to swallow before replying. "Oh, yes indeed!" he exclaimed—using all his acting abilities to show keen excitement in place of the inquietude the strange captain's attention actually caused him. "I daresay it has been quite a while since I've last had such a fine meal."

It once again helped that what he said was at least not too far from the truth. He did, however, stop to wonder if he was overplaying it a tad.

_Stop thinking!_

He looked around, saw the milk-jug in front of him, and since there was nothing more appropriate at hand, picked it up and raised it to the Captain. He only felt mildly stupid doing so, but nobody seemed to make anything of it. Only Roggie was smirking, but the damned bastard was in the habit of doing that anyway. "Thank you, good Captain, for inviting us! It sure has been a pleasure so far." He took the jug to his lips, sipping carefully so as to not acquire a milk-mustache.

Everyone else around the table similarly grabbed their glasses and bottles, and drank—including the Captain, grinning still.

_Why do you always have to act like such a damned fool!_

Then, as if to spite himself, he put down the jug and continued, "It must be pointed out, however: I would never have expected food this fine on a pirate ship!"

_I give up—you're hopeless! _

Quiet stares on him now, Castorius began to suspect it had been the wrong thing to say. Compliments were one thing, as virtually everybody enjoyed those, but it was a whole different matter to be told to your face you had proven yourself better than expected. A more sensitive man might take that in all the wrong ways.

Surely lives had been lost over more trifling matters.

Castorius cleared his throat, ardently probing his brain for a way to dress up what could be interpreted as a poorly veiled insult. Unfortunately, he was running on empty.

Much to his relief, then, the Captain burst out laughing— raucously too, as if he'd not heard a better jest in a while. The faces around him were uncertain at first, but ultimately, as if judging it better to humor their leader, his lackeys pitched in with some halfhearted chuckles.

Castorius himself only felt embarrassed. Though he did do his best to replicate a few desultory cackles for courtesy.

Captain Malaney slammed his fist on the table, then, and Castorius was not the only one to jump in seat. The Captain cast a knowing gaze across the table with those black pearls for eyes. "You have keen senses, my boy," he said, snatched a knife off the table, and started to pick his teeth with it. "But I'm no ordinary pirate."

"No?" asked Castorius, apparently unable to keep his mouth shut.

Malaney shook his head. "No, I'm not." He stabbed the knife into the table, and left it sticking up there, hilt quivering. Despite the quasi-violent motion, he was the picture of calm. "I'm much more, as I am able to think far beyond the usual 'where is the next loot coming from' -mentality so typical for my kind." His smile was almost pleasant. "And so I make sure my crew is beyond the ordinary as well. You enjoyed the food? Well, I'll have you know we have a professional chef working on this ship."

"Really?" Now that _was _genuinely interesting.

Malaney looked pleased. "Indeed. Have you ever tasted skeever meat, by any chance?"

Castorius would have to be pretty damn desperate to do that. He'd seen plenty of the enormous rats when they were still alive, and felt no more desire to go any nearer the beasts when dead. He was well aware that many soldiers _were_ that desperate, however, or perhaps simply had lower standards for their nutriment. Likely it was the latter.

To answer the Captain, he shook his head.

Malaney laughed. "Well, if you had, you'd feel no qualms about doing what is necessary to ensure you'd always have better stuff around. Though I must admit: even skeever is pretty tasty when prepared by a professional."

Men around the Captain were nodding their heads. One of them said, "Well, I always rather liked their meat in the first place," drawing some concurring nods from around him.

"Was I talking to you?!" the Captain roared, and the man shrank back, shaking his head.

"I appreciate your ambition," Castorius put it to distract the Captain staring murderously at his poor underling.

Malaney turned back to him, and flashed another smile. Or perhaps "smile" was too kind a word to describe it. "And I appreciate your appreciation," he said cordially, clearly another man deeply in love with his own mirror image, and always eager to hear about other people sharing his enthusiasm. Men like that, Castorius had learned, were generally easy to manipulate, once one learned their weak spots. And with most of them, the search was seldom a long one.

This one might have been slightly different, though, and Castorius had still not entirely gotten over the odd feeling he was getting from the man. Fortunately there was nothing he wanted from Malaney, except to perhaps get away from him without getting caught in his games, whatever they might have been.

"I also keep a scribe, you know," the Captain said, glowing with self-satisfaction.

"Really?" _We're never going to get out of here if you keep encouraging him!_

"Oh yes," the Captain beamed, "abducted him off a ship from Black Marsh just last week, I did." He made it sound like he'd trapped a rare species of butterfly or something.

"_Abducted_?"

"Uh huh. And a good one too!" Again, like some species of animal.

Castorius licked his lips. Hard to come up with anything to say to that.

"Yes, indeed," the Captain carried on. "After all, one needs a good writer to pen down all the glorious details of one's adventures. I intend to live on long after this mortal coil finally craps out."

"An autobiography?" Castorius had met a few of those who had similar ambitions. Self-involved blowhards and lunatics, the lot of them.

Malaney nodded triumphantly. "Like I said, I'm no ordinary pirate."

Just as Castorius was weighing whether or not he should at all continue on the subject, and was indeed starting to think of ways he could derail the conversation, Roggie spoke, and managed to voice out exactly what Castorius had also been thinking. "You kidnapped the man, and you're going to force him to write about you?"

"Yes?" the Captain said, as if unable to see what ever could have been wrong with the presented scenario.

Roggie gave an uncertain smirk. "Perhaps I'm mistaken, but the way I see it you can hold a man hostage, but you certainly can't _force_ him to write."

The Captain seemed almost delighted. "Oh, I can! And I have!" his grin was wider than ever. "He'll write, take my word for it. I have relayed to him in fine detail what will await him if he does not. Man of imagination that he is, I'm quite convinced the message got through to him. He's just _dying_ to start!" The other pirates joined him in laughter. "I'm currently keeping him locked up in the cargo hold, reading some classics of history—y'know, in order to get the proper tone down."

If Castorius did not already have reasons enough to dislike this man, he now felt his distaste all the way down to his stomach. He was then perhaps partly spurred on by an unsound desire to give this obnoxious man even just the most oblique of slights, when he said, "Well, for such an outstanding individual, I'm surprised I've never even heard of you before."

_Idiot! You utter moron!_

Now it was truly quiet around the table. Not even Roggie was smirking anymore. This time Castorius was dead certain he'd crossed the line.

It was evident Captain Malaney had not missed the obvious subtext in Castorius' seemingly offhand comment. A certain darkness mixed in with his levity, but he did not for a second drop his self-assertive grin. "Not all of the greats are famed, my friend, and not all of those famed are great." He spoke with a touch lower note now, as if to make sure the implications of his words would not be missed.

Castorius swallowed, but decided to continue. He knew perfectly well the answer to his next question before he even asked it, but thought playing ignorance a good strategy at this point. He looked as deeply in the Captain's disconcerting eyes as he could, despite the eerie feeling it gave him. "So, you run the Blood Horkers, then?"

Malaney stared at him for a while, then shook his head. "Unfortunately, no." He scratched at his beard. "Well, actually that's rather a happy thing."

"How so?"

Malaney stood up, and started to walk slowly around the table. "Men, the easily fooled creatures that they are, generally imagine that in order to reach true greatness, they need to assert their own power over others. In short: they want to lead." He stopped, surveying his audience to see if anyone had objections or contributions. When they did not, he gave a satisfied nod, and continued pacing. "But, needless to say, in thinking so, they are greatly mistaken."

Not that Castorius didn't more or less wholeheartedly agree so far with the Captains argument, but it did come across as somewhat factitious from a man who in truth ran his own ship.

Malaney raised his index finger in the manner a lecturer. "See, while it is true that power is the key, what they forget is what power _is_. And what is it?" He stopped again, looking around. "Anyone?" In fact, exactly like a lecturer.

And, to complete the absurd semblance of a school class, one of he pirates lifted an uncertain hand.

The Captain grinned, pointed at the man. "Yes, Gunnar?"

"Well," the man said with some uncertainty, standing up. It was quite the sight: a big, burly, shirtless man like that, acting like a bashful school-boy. "It's the ability to do, is it not?"

Malaney gestured for the man to sit, who did as told. "Almost, but not quite," he said, continuing his walk. He tapped on Castorius' shoulder with his hand when passing. "Ultimately, power is mind's ability to shape reality after the image of its own desire."

He let his eye wander about the table to watch for the impact of his words. A pale and somewhat sickly looking man sitting between Roggie and Gunnar, the same one who earlier had mentioned his disposition towards skeever meat, coughed loudly, and the Captain gave him a furious glare.

He did not let himself be slowed down, though, but instead picked up pace, as if animated by his own speech. "See, it's this desire that itself makes things be. Things exist not because of mere chance, or by will of any god, but because they _want_ to exist!"

This wasn't sounding like anything any authority of any established religion would say. After all, they all emphasized the role of deities in the creation process. Supposedly.

Malaney completed another round, then stopped behind Castorius, placing his hands on his shoulders. Castorius had to exercise tremendous power of will not to try to shake them off.

"Mind, my friends, is the forerunner," said the Captain, "and everything else follows in its wake. It is as I tried to tell the fool there at the shore. What limitations we allow for our minds, those we experience in our own existence. They become the boundaries of our world." Castorius couldn't see it, but supposed Malaney was grinning in his ominous way. "And while it _is_ true leaders have a far greater chance of shaping the world as they wish—much more so than the average person—it is likewise true that they are themselves limited by the exact same things they are supposed to command."

He looked down and met Castorius' eyes, regarding him gently like a father might. A father that Castorius never had, but whom he hated nonetheless. "So that is why I don't run the Blood Horkers. Or, suppose I say, it's why I wouldn't _want_ to. Too many limitations." He lifted his gaze, patting at Castorius' shoulder. " Too. Many. Limitations."

Then, when Malaney said nothing more but didn't remove his hands either, and when no one else seemed to know what to do, Castorius decided to break the silence. "Well, that _is_ fascinating," he said. "But seems as it might be getting late," he looked at the wall where no clock was hanging, "it would probably be better we get on with our negotiations."

"Oh, that's taken care of," Malaney said, offhand.

"It is?"

"Yes," Roggie chimed in, "we had our little talk while you were eating."

"Oh."

"Indeed," Malaney said. "It's all very simple, really. You get me _Alessia's Trial_, Ulfric will get his contract, and we can look forward to a hopefully successful future of doing more business together."

What the man said, and particularly the last bit, caused Castorius to raise an inquisitive brow at Roggie, but the Nord just smiled a sort of "we'll talk later" smile.

_I don't really care, just let me out of here,_ Castorius thought. "Well, alright," he said, tapping the tabletop, and made to rise. The Captain's hands were still resting heavy on his shoulders, keeping him from getting up. _Alright, then._

"There's something more," Malaney said. _Of course._ "Something about some 'commodore' was mentioned earlier, I believe."

"Ah," said Roggie. "An old associate of Ulfric's, looking to play a part in arranging his fleet. The thing with him is he used to command a warship for the East Empire Trading Company, and has certain misgivings about pirates. As, I'm sure, you might imagine."

"Is he going to be a problem?" As in: is he going to be _my_ problem—and if so, consider him dead.

Roggie shook his head with pursed lips. "We can handle him."

"Good. See that you do." The Captain released Castorius from his captivity, making him want to sigh in relief. "I believe we're done for now, then."

Roggie stood up, smiling. "This is going to work out great, you'll see." In Castorius' mind, that was a textbook example of a foreword for certain doom.

"Thank you again for the splendid dinner!" Castorius said, giving the Captain a quick smile, then made to slip away.

The Captain, however, draped his arm around Castorius' neck, and started leading him in a gentle but determined way out of the dining room.

_Damn—almost! _Castorius did nothing to resist.

Once they were out of earshot, the Captain regarded him soberly. "I don't like you, you know."

"Oh?" What to say to that—that the feeling was firmly footed on the base of mutuality? "Sorry to hear that."

"No!" the captain brightened, pulling back his arm. "It's a good thing!"

"It is?"

"Yes! I don't trust a man I like, not for the life of me!" He waved an angry hand at nothing. "Unreliable bastards to a man!"

Castorius thought about it for a split second, and could see some kind of sense in Malaney's reasoning. Sort of.

The Captain jabbed his finger at Castorius' chest. "But you, I can see you're _scum_!" That was not the most flattering of flatteries ever to come his way. "A man after my own heart, eh?" Malaney grinned, punching Castorius playfully in the shoulder, and he stifled a yelp.

Malaney sat down, gesturing for him to do so also. "Tell me, what can you remember of your childhood?"

Castorius had to admit that was as unexpected a question as he might have anticipated given the source.

He shrugged, said, "Nothing much, to be perfectly honest," being perfectly honest.

Malaney gave a sympathetic nod. "Ah. Same here. I had a mother, of that I'm fairly sure." He gazed pensively into the distance. "She was a kind woman, she was."

Then he frowned. "Or, on the other hand, could be she was a mean-spirited cunt." The conundrum prompted Malaney to shrug. "Hard to say. Pretty sure I had father, also. Likely a drunk; a violent one at that."

The Captain then concluded the reminiscence of his family history by producing a flask out of his chest pocket. He took a nip, offered it to Castorius who replied with a shake of head, made nothing of it, took another nip, and set it on the table between them, lips smacking contemplatively. "It's really important, you know."

Castorius hated it when people did that, made vague statements to draw the other person to ask what they meant—just to keep them involved in the otherwise one-sided conversation.

"What is?" he asked.

Malaney smiled, as in "glad you asked"—the predictable bastard. He gave Castorius a grave look. "Remembering who you are," he said. "Where you come from. 'Cause if you don't, what does that make you?"

Was that a real question?

"I don't know," Castorius muttered.

Captain Malaney jabbed a finger at him. "Exactly! You don't know! And what you don't know you cannot control." He leaned back, though his chair had no back rest. "But it's not so bad."

"No?" Castorius was rapidly losing his taste for yammering madmen. And he'd never had much taste for them to begin with.

"No, see, what matters is not where or what a man has been, but what one has been made into, so to speak."

"Thought you just said it _was_ important," Castorius pointed out. Why was he unnecessarily stretching this?

"Oh it is," assured the Captain, "it is. But it's not as important as what a man makes of that which he has been made into."

"I have to assume you're talking about yourself here."

Malaney laughed. "Oh, yes indeed. You are clever." _Hardly took a genius to decipher that._ "But I'm also taking about you, my boy. See, men like us," Malaney waved his finger between them. "We are those who are able to steer things in the way we want it to go. We are captains of our own lives, as it were."

It hardly felt like things had been going where Castorius would have liked them to just lately. He gave a slow nod, as if he was thinking about what Malaney had just said.

From back at the table, there was the sound of the earlier gaunt man coughing, and the Captain's left eye twitched with annoyance. He quickly recovered, though, and grinned again. "It is as you so astutely put it earlier: nobody does know me—as of yet."

That wasn't exactly what Castorius had said, but since the captain did not appear to be upset by it, he didn't bother correcting the man.

"But they will," Malaney continued. "That's what the whole scribe business is about, too. Words create reality. They are the active will of the mind." he tapped at his forehead. "And mind, as I said is foremost. Mind makes the world; believe me on that. And I will use mine to shape a future into one in which I will be remembered. Will be reckoned." He nodded his head as if him just saying it made it so.

Afraid of the potential answer, Castorius asked, "And where do I fit in in all of this?"

Malaney leaned forward, breath rank with liquor and rot. "You and I can help each other," he whispered. "I could use a man like you. Roggvir back there," he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, in the wrong direction. "He's a good lad, but this close to becoming entangled in this or that mental construction not of his own making. And that makes him a liability." He lay a hand on Castorius' shoulder. "You, on the other hand, I can see you will never let anything get in your way, to stop you from forwarding your own position."

Like as his did to pretend to the contrary, some of the things the unbecoming captain had been saying had resonated with Castorius. And now, at this last one, two thoughts ran though his head at once. First of all there was the disconcerting feeling he was not going to get rid of this man like he planned to. Try as he might, there was no denying that he was speaking as if he had seen Castorius' mind, perhaps even—gods forbid—shared some important qualities with him. Could he really be able to help Castorius in what he had so far failed at?

Secondly, what was it he had said about Roggie? _A liability_? Castorius was not perhaps that well versed in the lingo of hardened criminals, but that hadn't sounded too good to him. Did Malaney see Roggie as some kind of threat to him? He certainly did come off as the paranoid type, so it was a distinct possibility. And if that was the case, Castorius would need to warn his friend.

On the other hand, if he did so, would that even accomplish anything? Roggie would likely not believe him anyway, and might even take it to the Captain—then it would be Castorius himself in danger.

In any case, he was more certain by the second he was already in too deep to back down. He just barely stifled a sigh, and in its stead feigned a grin. "I can see that you're a very perceptive man."

The briefest flash of hesitation lingered on Malaney's face, as if he needed to judge whether Castorius was making a veiled insult. Based on the smirk slowly spreading on it, he the conclusion was negative. "Oh, you don't know the beginning of it!"

_I believe that's a book I don't want to crack open,_ Castorius thought. "I'm sure I don't." He stuck out his hand. "You can rely on me. Me and Roggie will take of this. And then we'll talk more."

The Captain closed his large, clammy hand around Castorius' and gave an overtly vigorous squeeze. "Good man, " he growled. _Oh, you don't know the beginning of it. _

It was very difficult to resist wiping his hand once Malaney released it. Castorius focused on not letting his expression of complicity falter.

Malaney spread his arms. "And so we conclude our business."

Castorius nodded. _And not a moment too soon._ The relief he felt, however, was mixed with the dread from knowing their business was actually far from concluded.

Instead of waiting around for Castorius, the Captain sprung up from his chair, and stormed back to his crew. Already he sounded like he had spotted something very displeasing about them, and was barking from the bottom of his lungs. Accusations of improper sexual activities with the women who birthed them appeared at the forefront of his clamoring.

It took a moment for Castorius to gather his thoughts and himself before he could get up. He sought out Roggie. The man, as typical, was smirking his stupid smirk at him.

Castorius waved dismissively at the man. "Keep your mouth shut, unless you're looking to be punched."

Surprisingly enough, Roggie did as told. In silence, they climbed onto the deck of the Brinehammer, to get in the rowboat and back onto solid ground, and away from this teetering deathtrap.

_Let's get this over with—whatever in gods' names it's gonna be._


End file.
